Bester, Alfred - The Flowered Thundermug

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Alfred Bester. The Flowered Thundermug

"We will conclude this first semester of Antiquities 107," Professor Paul

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 seek

spiritual 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 . . ."

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Bester, Alfred - The Flowered Thundermug

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