Alfred Bester. The Flowered Thundermug
"We will conclude this first semester of Antiquities 107," ProfessorPaul Muni said, "with a reconstruction of an average day in the life of a
mid-twentieth-century inhabitant of the United States of America, as Great
L.A. was known five hundred years ago.
"Let us refer to him as Jukes, one of the proudest names of
the times, immortalized in the Kallikak-Jukes-feud sagas. It is
now generally agreed that the mysterious code letters JU, found
in the directories of Hollywood East, or New York City as it
was called then--viz., JU 6-0600 or JU 2-1914--indicate in some
manner a genealogical relationship to the powerful Jukes
dynasty.
"The year is 1950. Mr. Jukes, a typical `loner'--i.e.,
`bachelor'--lives on a small ranch outside New York. He rises
at dawn, dresses in spurred boots, Daks slacks, rawhide shirt,
gray flannel waistcoat and black knit tie. He arms himself with
a Police Positive revolver or a Frontier Six Shooter and goes
out to the Bar-B-Q to prepare his breakfast of curried plankton
or converted algae. He may or may not surprise juvenile
delinquents or red Indians on his ranch in the act of lynching
a victim or rustling his automobiles, of which he has a herd of
perhaps one hundred and fifty.
"These hooligans he disperses after single combat with his
fists. Like all twentieth-century Americans, Jukes is a brute
of fantastic strength, giving and receiving sledgehammer blows,
or being battered by articles of furniture with inexhaustible
resilience. He rarely uses his gun on such occasions; it is
usually reserved for ceremonial rituals.
"Mr. Jukes journeys to his job in New York City on
horseback; in a sports car (a kind of open automobile), or on
an electric trolley car. He reads his morning newspaper, which
will feature such stories as: `The Discovery of the North
Pole,' `The Sinking of the Luxury Liner Titanic,' `The
Successful Orbiting of Mars by Manned Space Capsule,' or `The
Strange Death of President Harding.'
"Jukes works in an advertising agency situated on Madison
Avenue (now Sunset Boulevard East), which, in those days, was a
rough muddy highway, traversed by stagecoaches, lined with gin
mills and populated by bullies, corpses and beautiful
night-club performers in abbreviated dresses. Jukes is an
agency man, dedicated to the guidance of taste, the improvement
of culture, the election of public officers and the selection
of national heroes.
"His office on the twentieth floor of a towering skyscraper
is decorated in the characteristic style of the mid-twentieth
century. He has a roll-top desk, a Null-G, or Free Fall chair
and a brass spittoon. Illumination is by Optical Maser light
pumps. Large fans suspended from the ceiling cool him in the
summer, and an infrared Franklin stove warms him in the winter.
"The walls are decorated with rare pictures executed by
such famous painters as Michelangelo, Renoir and Sunday.
Alongside the desk is a tape recorder, which he uses for
dictation. His words are later written down by a secretary
using a pen and carbon ink. (It has, by now, been clearly
demonstrated that the typewriting machine was not developed
until the onset of the Computer Age at the end of the twentieth
century.)
"Mr. Jukes's work involves the creation of the spiritual
slogans that uplift the consumer half of the nation. A few of
these have come down to us in more or less fragmentary
condition, and those of you who have taken Professor Rex
Harrison's course, Linguistics 916, know the extraordinary
difficulties we are encountering in our attempts to interpret:
`Good to the Last Drop' (for `good' read `God'?); `Does She or
Doesn't She?' (what?); and `I Dreamed I Went to the Circus in
My Maidenform Bra' (incomprehensible).
"At midday, Mr. Jukes takes a second meal, usually a
community affair with thousands of others in a giant stadium.
He returns to his office and resumes work, but you must
understand that conditions were not ideal for concentration,
which is why he was forced to labor as much as four and six
hours a day. In those deplorable times there was a constant
uproar of highway robberies, hijackings, gang wars and other
brutalities. The air was filled with falling bodies as
despairing brokers leaped from their office windows.
"Consequently it is only natural for Mr. Jukes to seekspiritual peace at the end of the day. This he finds at a
ritual called a `cocktail party.' He and many other believers
stand close-packed in a small room, praying aloud, and filling
the air with the sacred residues of marijuana and mescaline.
The women worshipers often wear vestments called `cocktail
dresses,' otherwise known as `basic black.'
"Afterward, Mr. Jukes may take his last meal of the day in
a night club, an underground place of entertainment where rare
shows are presented. He is often accompanied by his `expense
account,' a phrase difficult to interpret. Dr. David Niven
argues most cogently that it was cant for `a woman of easy
virtue,' but Professor Nelson Eddy points out that this merely
compounds the difficulty, since no one today knows what `a
woman of easy virtue' was.
"Finally, Mr. Jukes returns to his ranch on a `commuters'
special,' a species of steam car, on which he plays games of
chance with the professional gamblers who infested all the
transportation systems of the times At home, he builds a small
outdoor fire, calculates the day's expenses on his abacus,
plays sad music on his guitar, makes love to one of the
thousands of strange women who made it a practice of intruding
on campfires at odd hours, rolls up in a blanket and goes to
sleep.
"Such was the barbarism of that age--an age so hysteric
that few men lived beyond one hundred years. And yet romantics
today yearn for that monstrous era of turmoil and terror.
Twentieth-century Americana is all the vogue. Only recently, a
single copy of Life, a sort of mail-order catalogue, was
bought at auction by the noted collector Clifton Webb for
$150,000. I might mention, in passing, that in my analysis of
that curio in the current Phil. Trans. I cast grave
doubts on its authenticity. Certain anachronisms in the text
indicate a possible forgery.
"And now a final word about your term examinations. There
has been some talk about bias on the part of the computer. It
has been suggested that when this department took over the
Multi-III from Biochemistry, various circuits were overlooked
and left operative, prejudicing the computer in favor of the
mathematical approach. This is utter nonsense. Our computer
psychiatrist assures me that the Multi-III was completely
brainwashed and reindoctrinated. Exhaustive checks have shown
that all errors were the result of student carelessness.
"I urge you to observe the standard sterilization
procedures before taking your examination. Do not scamp your
wash-up. Make sure your surgical caps, gowns, masks and gloves
are properly adjusted. Be certain that your punching tools are
in register and sterile. Remember that one speck of
contamination on your answer card can wreck your results. The
Multi-III is not a machine, it is a brain, and requires the
same care and consideration you give your own bodies. Thank
you, good luck, and I hope to see you all again next semester."
Coming out of the lecture hall, Professor Muni was met in
the crowded corridor by his secretary, Ann Sothern. She was
wearing a polka dot bikini, carried a tray of drinks and had a
pair of the professor's swim trunks draped over her arm. Muni
nodded in appreciation, swallowed a quick one and frowned at
the traditional musical production number with which the
students moved from class to class. He began reassembling his
lecture notes as they hurried from the building.
"No time for a dip, Miss Sothern," he said. "I'm scheduled
to sneer at a revolutionary discovery in the Medical Arts
Building this afternoon."
"It's not on your calendar, Dr. Muni."
"I know. I know. But Raymond Massey is sick, and I'm
standing in for him. Ray says he'll substitute for me the next
time I'm due to advise a young genius to give up poetry."
They left the Sociology Building, passed the teardrop
swimming pool, the book-shaped library, the heart-shaped Heart
Clinic, and came to the faculty-shaped Faculty-Building. It was
in a grove of royal palms through which a miniature golf course
meandered, its air conditioners emitting a sibilant sound.
Inside the Faculty Building, concealed loudspeakers were
broadcasting the latest noise-hit.
"What is it--Caruso's `Niagara'?" Professor Muni asked
absently.
"No, Callas's `Johnstown Flood,'" Miss Sothern answered,
opening the door of Muni's office. "Why, that's odd. I could
have sworn I left the lights on." She felt for the light
switch.
"Stop," Professor Muni snapped. "There's more here than
meets the eye, Miss Sothern."
"You mean . . . ?"
"Who does one traditionally encounter on a surprise visit
in a darkened room? I mean, whom."
"Th-the Bad Guys?"
"Precisely."
A nasal voice spoke. "You are so right, my dear professor,
but I assure you this is purely a private business matter."
"Dr. Muni," Miss Sothern gasped. "There's someone in your
office."
"Do come in, professor," the nasal voice said. "That is, if
you will permit me to invite you into your own office. There is
no use trying to turn on the lights, Miss Sothern. They have
been--attended to."
"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" Professor Muni
demanded.
"Come in. Come in. Boris, guide the professor to a chair.
The goon who is taking your arm, Professor Muni, is my ruthless
bodyguard, Boris Karloff. I am Peter Lorre."
"I demand an explanation," Muni shouted. "Why have you
invaded my office? Why are the lights out? By what right do
you--"
"The lights arc out because it is best that people do not
see Boris. He is a most useful man, but not, shall we say, an
aesthetic delight. Why I have invaded your office will be made
known to you after you have answered one or two trifling
questions."
"I will do nothing of the sort. Miss Sothern, get the
dean."
"You will remain where you are, Miss Sothern."
"Do as you're told, Miss Sothern. I will not permit this--"
"Boris, light something."
Something was lit. Miss Sothern screamed. Professor Muni
was dumb-struck.
"All right, Boris, put it out. Now, my dear professor, to
business. First, let me inform you that it will be worth your
while to answer my questions honestly. Be good enough to put
out your hand." Professor Muni extended his hand. A sheaf of
bills was placed in it. "Here is one thousand dollars; your
consultation fee. Would you care to count it? Shall I have
Boris light something?"
"I believe you," Muni muttered.
"Very good. Professor Muni, where and how long did you
study American history?"
"That's an odd question, Mr. Lorre."
"You have been paid, Professor Muni."
"Very true. Well . . . I studied at Hollywood High, Harvard
High, Yale High and the College of the Pacific."
"What is `college'?"
"The old name for a high. They're traditionalists at
Pacific--hidebound reactionaries."
"And how long did you study?"
"Some twenty years."
"How long have you been teaching here at Columbia High?"
"Fifteen years."
"Then that adds up to thirty-five years of experience.
Would you say that you had an extensive knowledge of the merits
and qualifications of the various living historians?"
"Fairly extensive. Yes."
"Then who, in your opinion, is the leading authority on
twentieth-century Americana?"
"Ah. So. Very interesting. Harrison, of course, on
advertising copy, newspaper headlines, and photo captions.
Taylor on domestic science--that's Dr. Elizabeth Taylor. Gable
is probably your best bet for transportation. Clark's at
Cambridge High now, but he--"
"Excuse me, Professor Muni. I put the question badly. I
should have asked: Who is the leading authority on
twentieth-century objects of virtu? Antiques, paintings,
furniture, curios, objets d'art, and so forth . . ."
"Ah! I have no hesitation in answering that, Mr. Lorre.
Myself."
"Very good. Very good. Now listen carefully, Professor
Muni. I have been delegated by a little group of powerful men
to hire your professional services. You will be paid ten
thousand dollars in advance. You will give your word that the
transaction will be kept secret. And it must be understood that
if your mission fails, we will do nothing to help you."
"That's a lot of money," Professor Muni said slowly. "How
can I be sure that this offer is from the Good Guys?"
"You have my assurance that it is for freedom and justice,
the man on the street, the underdogs and the L.A. Way of Life.
Of course, you can refuse this dangerous assignment, and it
will not be held against you, but you are the one man in all
Great L.A. who can carry it out."
"Well," Professor Muni said, "seeing that I have nothing
better to do than mistakenly sneer at a cancer cure today, I
might as well accept."
"I knew we could depend on you. You are the sort of little
man that makes L.A. great. Boris, sing the national anthem."
"Thank you, but I need no praise. I'm just doing what any
loyal, red-blooded, one-hundred-percent Angelino would do."
"Very good. I will pick you up at midnight. You will be
wearing rough tweeds, a felt hat pulled down over your face and
stout shoes. You will carry one hundred feet of mountaineering
rope, prism binoculars and an ugly snub-nosed fission gun. Your
code identity will be .369."
"This," Peter Lorre said, "is .369. .369, may I have the
pleasure of introducing you to X, Y and Z?"
"Good evening, Professor Muni," the Italian-looking
gentleman said. "I am Vittorio De Sica. This is Miss Garbo.
That is Edward Everett Horton. Thank you, Peter. You may go."
Mr. Lorre exited. Muni stared around. He was in a sumptuous
penthouse apartment decorated entirely in white. Even the fire
burning in the grate was, by some miracle of chemistry,
composed entirely of milk-white flames. Mr. Horton was pacing
nervously before the fire. Miss Garbo reclined languidly on a
polar-bear skin, an ivory cigarette holder drooping from her
hand.
"Let me relieve you of that rope, professor," De Sica said.
"And the customary binoculars and snub-nosed pistol, I presume?
I'll take them too. Do make yourself comfortable. You must
forgive our being in faultless evening dress; our cover
identities, you understand. We operate the gambling hell
downstairs. Actually we are--"
"No!" Mr. Horton cried in alarm.
"Unless we have full faith in Professor Muni and are
perfectly candid, we will get nowhere, my dear Horton. You
agree, Greta?" Miss Garbo nodded.
"Actually," De Sica continued, "we are a little group of
powerful art dealers."
Muni stammered, "Th-then . . . Then you're the De
Sica, and the Garbo, and the Horton?"
"We are."
"B-but . . . But everyone says you don't exist. Everyone
believes that the organization known as the Little Group of
Powerful Art Dealers is really owned by `The Thirty-nine
Steps,' with the controlling interest vested in Cosa
Vostro. It is said that--"
"Yes, yes," De Sica interrupted. "That is what we desire to
have believed; hence our cover identity as the sinister trio
operating this gambling syndicate. But it is we three who
control the art of the world, and that is why you are here."
"I don't understand."
"Show him the list," Miss Garbo growled.
De Sica produced a sheet of paper and handed it to Muni.
"Be good enough to read this list of articles, Professor. Study
it carefully. A great deal will depend on the conclusions you
draw."
