Simak, Clifford D - So Bright the Vision

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Title : So Bright the Vision

Author : Clifford D. Simak

Original copyright year: 1956

Genre : science fiction

Comments : to my knowledge, this is the only available e-text of this book

Source : scanned and OCR-read from a paperback edition with Xerox TextBridge Pro 9.0,

proofread in MS Word 2000.

Date of e-text : February 15, 2000

Prepared by : Anada Sucka

======================================================================

So Bright the Vision

Clifford D. Simak

The showroom was in the decorous part of town, where Kemp Hart seldom found himself. It was a

long way from his usual haunts and he was surprised to find that he had walked so far. In fact, he

would not have walked at all if his credit had been good at the Bright Star bar where his crowd

hung out.

As soon as he realized where he was he knew he should turn around and walk rapidly away, for

he was out of place in this district of swank publishers, gold-plated warrens and famous eateries.

But the showroom held him. It would not let him go. He stood in front of it in all his down-at-the-

heels unkemptness, one hand thrust in a pocket, fugitively rubbing between thumb and finger the

two small coins that still remained to him.

Behind the glass the machines were shining-wonderful, the sort of merchandise that belonged on

this svelte and perfumed street. One machine in the corner of the showroom was bigger and shinier

than the others and had about it a rare glint of competence. It had a massive keyboard for the

feeding in of data and it had a hundred slots or so for the working tapes and films. It had a mood

control calibrated more sensitively than any he had ever seen and in all probability a lot of

other features that were not immediately apparent.

With a machine such as that, Hart told himself, a man could become famous almost automatically

and virtually overnight. He could write anything he wished and he would write it well and the

doors of the most snooty of the publishers would stand open to him.

But much as he might wish to, there was no use of going in to see it. There was nothing to be

gained by even thinking about it. It was just something he could stand and look at from beyond the

showroom's glass.

And yet, he told himself, he had a perfect right to go in and look it over. There was not a

thing to stop him. Nothing, at least, beyond the sneer upon the salesman's face at the sight of

him - the silent, polite, well-disciplined contempt when he turned and slunk away.

He looked furtively up and down the street and the street was empty. The hour was far too

early for this particular street to have come to life, and it occurred to him that if he just

walked in and asked to see the machine, it would be all right. Perhaps he could explain he did not

wish to buy it, but just to look at it. Maybe if he did that they wouldn't sneer at him. Certainly

no one could object. There must be a lot of people, even rich and famous people, who only come to

look.

He edged along the showroom, studying the machines and heading for the door, telling himself

that he would not go in, that it was foolish to go in, but secretly knowing that he would.

He reached the door and opened it and stepped inside. The salesman appeared almost as if by

magic.

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"The yarner in the corner," Hart said. "I wonder if I might - "

"Most certainly," said the salesman. "If you'll just come along with me."

In the corner of the showroom, the salesman draped his arm across the machine affectionately.

"It is our newest model," he said. "We call it the Classic, because it has been designed and

engineered with but one thought in mind - the production of the classic. It is, we think, a vast

improvement over our Best Seller Model, which, after all, is intended to turn out no better than

best sellers - even though on occasion it has turned out certain minor classics. To be quite

honest with you sir, I would suspect that in almost every one of those instances, it had been

souped up a bit, I am told some people are very clever that way."

Hart shook his head. "Not me. I'm all thumbs when it comes to tinkering."

"In that case," said the salesman, "the thing for you to do is buy the best yarner that you

can. Used intelligently, there's virtually no limit to its versatility. And in this particular

model the quality factor is much higher than in any of the others. Although naturally, to get the

best results you must be selective in your character film, and your narrative problem tapes. But

that needn't worry you. We have a large stock of tapes and films and some new mood and atmosphere

fixers that are quite unique. They come fairly high, of course, but - "

"By the way, just what is the price of this model?"

"Ifs only twenty-five thousand," the salesman told him brightly. "Don't you wonder, sir, how

it can be offered at so ridiculous a figure? The engineering that went into it is remarkable. We

worked on it for ten full years before we were satisfied. And during those ten years the

specifications were junked and redrawn time and time again to keep pace with our developmental

research."

He slapped the shiny machine with a jubilant hand. "I can guarantee you, sir, that nowhere can

you get a product superior to this. It has everything. Millions of probability factors have been

built into it, assuring you of sure-fire originality. No danger of stumbling into the stereotype,

which is not true at all with so many of the cheaper models. The narrative bank alone is capable

of turning out an almost infinite number of situations on any particular theme and the character

developer has thousands of points of reference instead of the hundred or so you find in inferior

models. The semantics section is highly selective and sensitive and you must not overlook - "

"It's a good machine," interposed Hart. "But it costs a bit too much. Now, if you had

something else..."

"Most certainly, sir. We have many other models."

"Would you take a machine in trade?"

"Gladly. What kind of machine do you have, sir?"

"An Auto-Author Ninety-six."

The salesman froze just slightly. He shook his head, half sadly, half in bewilderment. "Well,

now, I don't know if we could allow you much for that. It's a fairly old type of machine. Almost

obsolete."

"But you could give me something?"

"I think so. Not a great deal, though."

"And time payment?"

"Yes, certainly. We could work something out. If you would give me your name."

Hart told him what it was.

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The salesman jotted it down and said, "Excuse me a moment, sir."

Hart stood for a moment, looking after him. Then, like a sneak thief in the night, he moved

softly to the front door and walked swiftly down the street.

There was no use in staying. No use at all of waiting for the salesman to come back and shake

his hand and say, 'We're very sorry, sir.'

We're very sorry, sir, because we've looked up your credit rating and it's absolutely

worthless. We checked your sales record and found you sold just one short story in the last six

months.

"It was a mistake to go for a walk at all," Hart told himself, not without bitterness.

Downtown, in a section of the city far removed from the glamorous showroom, Hart climbed six

flights of stairs because the elevator was out of whack again.

Behind the door that said IRVING PUBLICATIONS, the preoccupied receptionist stopped filing her

nails long enough to make a motion with her thumb toward the inner office.

"Go on in and see him," she said.

Ben Irving sat behind a heaped-up desk cluttered with manuscripts, proofs and layout sheets.

His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and he wore an eyeshade. He always wore the eyeshade and

that was one of the minor mysteries of the place, for at no time during the day was there light

enough in his dingy office to blind a self-respecting bat.

He looked up and blinked at Hart.

"Glad to see you, Kemp," he said. "Sit down. What's on your mind today?"

Hart took a chair. "I was wondering. About that last story that I sent you - "

"Haven't got around to it yet," said Irving. He waved his hand at the mess upon his desk by

way of explanation.

"Mary!" he shouted.

The receptionist stuck her head inside the door.

"Get Hart's manuscript," be said, "and let Millie have a look at it"

Irving leaned back in his chair. "This won't take long," he said. "Millie's a fast reader."

"I'll wait," said Hart.

"I've got something for you," Irving told him. "We're starting a new magazine, aimed at the

tribes out in the Algol system. They're a primitive sort of people, but they can read, Lord love

them. We had the devil's own time finding someone who could do the translations for us and it'll

cost more than we like to pay to have the type set up. They got the damnedest alphabet you ever

saw. We finally found a printer who had some in his fonts."

"What kind of stuff?" Hart asked.

"Simple humanoid," Irving replied. "Blood and thunder and a lot of spectacle. Life is tough

and hard out there, so we have to give them something with plenty of color in it that's easy to

read. Nothing fancy, mind you."

"Sounds all right."

"Good basic hack," said Irving. "See how it goes out there and if it goes all right we'll make

translations for some of the primitive groups out in the Capella region. Minor changes, maybe, but

none too serious."

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He squinted meditatively at Hart.

"Not too much pay. But if it goes over we'll want a lot of it"

"I'll see what I can do," said Hart "Any taboos? Anything to duck?"

"No religion at all," the editor told him. "They've got it, of course, but it's so complicated

that you'd better steer clear of it entirely. No mushy stuff. Love don't rate with them. They buy

their women and don't fool around with love. Treasure and greed would be good. Any standard

reference work will give you a line on that. Fantastic weapons - the more gruesome the better.

Bloodshed, lots of it. Hatred, that's their dish. Hatred and vengeance and hell-for-leather

living. And you simply got to keep it moving."

"I'll see what I can do."

"That's the second time you've said that."

"I'm not doing so good, Ben. Once I could have told you _yes_. Once I could have hauled it

over by the ton."

"Lost the touch?"

"Not the touch. The machine. My yarner is haywire. I might just as well try to write my

stories by hand."

Irving shuddered at the thought.

"Fix it up," he said, "Tinker with it."

"I'm no good at that. Anyhow, it's too old. Almost obsolete."

"Well, do the best you can. I'd like to go on buying from you."

The girl came in. Without looking at Hart she laid the manuscript down upon the desk. From

where he sat, Hart could see the single word the machine had stamped upon its face: REJECTED.

"Emphatic," said the girl. "Millie almost stripped a gear."

Irving pitched the manuscript to Hart.

"Sorry, Kemp. Better luck next time."

Hart rose, holding the manuscript in his hand. "I'll try this other thing," he said.

He started for the door.

"Just a minute," Irving said, his voice sympathetic.

Hart turned back.

Irving brought out his billfold, stripped out two tens and held them out.

"No," said Hart, staring at the bills longingly.

"It's a loan," said the editor. "Damn it, man, you can take a loan. You'll be bringing me some

stuff."

"Thanks, Ben. I'll remember this."

He stuffed the bills into his pocket and made a swift retreat.

Bitter dust burned in his throat and there was a hard, cold lump in the center of his belly.

_Got something for you_, Ben had said. _Good basic hack._

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Simak, Clifford D - So Bright the Vision

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