Jack Dann - Going Under
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Going Under
Jack Dann
When I first met Jack Dann, he had one arm in a cast and a pretty woman, feebly protesting, slung
over the other shoulder, and what can one say? No one else at the party seemed surprised that he
should show up that way.
Jack is bawdy and hilarious, irrepressible-a very social and sociable creature invading a
profession supposedly full of introverted bookworms. You might expect his writing to be
lighthearted, slick; but it's not.
There's a phenomenon, familiar to people who have writers as friends, that I call The
Buchwald Paradox. The name comes from an article in the Washington Post Sunday magazine, some
years back, about the problems of making up a guest list for an upper-crust Washington party.
Never ever invite Art Buchwald, it advised; this man who is so funny on paper is an absolute sea
anchor at a party. He sits behind his cigar and mumbles that the world is going to hell. The
author of this article found it to be generally true that funny writers were rather morose people.
But the converse is also true. If you want to liven up your party, she sate you should invite a
writer whose work is unrelentingly serious. And nail down the lampshades.
So it is with Jack. Most of his writing is rather deep and dark, carefully crafted,
thoughtful, intense. When he emerges from the chrysalis of work he is quite a different sort of
animal. (This paradox also characterizes at least two other contributors to this volume, Gene
Wolfe and Gardner Dozois. )
Jack has published four novels, a book of short stories, and a chapbook of poetry; he has
edited or co-edited nine anthologies of science fiction. His stories have appeared in most of the
science fiction magazines and the more prestigious original anthologies, as well as the occasional
slick journal of popular gynecology. This one, from Omni magazine, takes us oddly forward and back
in time, centering around an event that is a mod-
ern archetype of helpless terror. -
She was beautiful, huge, as graceful as a racing liner. She was a floating Crystal Palace, as
magnificent as anything J. P. Morgan could conceive. Designed by Alexander Carlisle and built by
Harland and Wolff, she wore the golden band of the company along all nine hundred feet of her. She
rose 175 feet like the side of a cliff, with nine steel decks, four sixty-two foot funnels, over
two thousand windows and side-lights to illuminate the luxurious cabins and suites and public
rooms. She weighed 46,000 tons, and her reciprocating engines and Parsons-type turbines could
generate over fifty thousand horsepower and speed the ship over twenty knots. She had a gymnasium,
a Turkish bath, squash and racquet courts, a swimming pool, libraries and lounges and sitting
rooms. There ` were rooms and suites to accommodate 735 first-class passen-
gers, 674 in second class, and over a thousand in steerage.
She was the R.M.S. Titanic, and Stephen met Esme on her Promenade Deck as she pulled out
of her Southampton dock, bound for New York City on her maiden voyage.
Esme stood beside him, resting what looked to be a cedar box on the rail, and gazed out
over the cheering crowds on the docks below. Stephen was struck immediately by how beautiful she
was. Actually, she was plain-featured, and quite young.
She had a high forehead, a small, straight nose, wet brown eyes that peeked out from under
plucked, arched eyebrows, and a mouth that was a little too full. Her blond hair, though clean,
was carelessly brushed and tangled in the back. Yet, to Stephen, she seemed beautiful.
"Hello," Stephen said, feeling slightly awkward. But colored ribbons and confetti snakes
were coiling through the air, and anything seemed possible.
Esme glanced at him. "Hello, you," she said.
"Pardon?" Stephen asked.
"I said, `Hello, you.' That's an expression that was in vogue when this boat first sailed,
if you'd like to know. It means `Hello, I think you're interesting and would consider sleeping
with you if I were so inclined.' "
"You must call it a ship," Stephen said.
She laughed and for an instant looked at him intently, as if in that second she could see
everything about him-that he was taking this voyage because he was bored with his life, that
nothing had ever really happened to him. He felt his face become hot. "Okay, 'ship,' does that
make you feel better?" she asked. "Anyway, I want to pretend that I'm living in the past. I don't
ever want to return to the present, do you?"
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"Well, 1 . . .' _
"Yes, I suppose you do, want to return, that is."
"What makes you think that?"
"Look how you're dressed. You shouldn't be wearing modern clothes on this ship. You'll
have to change later, you know." She was perfectly dressed in a powder-blue walking suit with
matching jacket, a pleated, velvet-trimmed front blouse, and an ostrich feather hat. She looked as
if she had stepped out of another century, and just now Stephen could believe she had.
"What's your name?" Stephen asked.
"Esme," she answered. Then she turned the box that she was resting on the rail and opened
the side facing the dock. "You see," she said to the box, "we really are here."
"What did you say?" Stephen asked.
"I was just talking to Poppa," she said, closing and latching the box.
" W ho?"
"I'll show you later, if you like," she promised. Then bells began to ring and the ship's
whistles cut the air. There was a cheer from the dock and on board, and the ship moved slowly out
to sea. To Stephen it seemed that the land, not the ship, was moving. The whole of England was
just floating peacefully away, while the string band on the ship's bridge played Oscar Strauss's
The Chocolate Soldier.
They watched until the land had dwindled to a thin line on the horizon, then Esme reached
naturally for Stephen's hand, squeezed it for a moment, then hurried away. Before Stephen could
speak, she had disappeared into the crowd, and he stood looking after her long after she had gone.
Stephen found her again in the Cafe Parisien, sitting in a large wicker chair beside an ornately
trellised wall.
"Well, hello, you," Esme said, smiling. She was the very model of a smart, stylish young
lady.
"Does that mean you're still interested?" Stephen asked, standing before her. Her smile
was infectious, and Stephen felt himself losing his poise, as he couldn't stop grinning.
"But mais oui," she said. Then she relaxed in her chair, slumped down as if she could
instantly revert to being a child-in fact, the dew was still on her-and she looked around the room
as though Stephen had suddenly disappeared.
"1 beg your pardon?" he asked.
"That's French, which no one uses anymore, but it was the language of the world when this
ship first sailed."
"I believe it was English," Stephen said smoothly.
"Well," she said, looking up at him, "it means that 1 might be interested if you'd kindly
sit down instead of looking down at me from the heights." Stephen sat down beside her and she
said, "It took you long enough to find me."
"Well," Stephen said, "I had to dress. Remember? You didn't find my previous attire ac-"
"I agree and I apologize," she said quickly, as if suddenly afraid of hurting his
feelings. She folded her hands behind the box that she had centered perfectly on the damask-
covered table. Her leg brushed against his; indeed, he did look fine, dressed in gray striped
trousers, spats, black morning coat, blue vest, and a silk cravat tied under a butterfly collar.
He fiddled with his hat, then placed it on the seat of the empty chair beside him. No doubt he
would forget to take it.
"Now," she said, "don't you feel better?"'
Stephen was completely taken with her; this had never happened to him before. He found it
inexplicable. A tall and very English waiter disturbed him by asking if he wished to order
cocktails, but Esme asked for a Narcodrine instead.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but Narcodrines or inhalors are not publicly sold on the ship," the
waiter said dryly.
"Well, that's what I want."
"One would have to ask the steward for the more modern refreshments."
"You did say you wanted to live in the past," Stephen said to Esme, and ordered a Campari
for her and a Drambuie for himself.
"Right now I would prefer a robot to take my order," Esme said.
"I'm sorry, but we have no robots on the ship either," the waiter said before he turned
away.
"Are you going to show me what's inside the box?" Stephen asked.
"I don't like that man," Esme said.
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"Esme, the box . . ."
"It might cause a stir if I opened it here."
"I would think you'd like that," Stephen said.
"You see, you know me intimately already." Then she smiled and winked at someone four
tables away. "Isn't he cute?"
"Who?"
"The little boy with the black hair parted in the middle." She waved at him, but he
ignored her and made an obscene gesture at a woman who looked to be his nanny. Then Esme opened
the box, which drew the little boy's attention. She pulled out a full-sized head of a man and
placed it gently beside the box.
"Jesus," Stephen said.
"Stephen, I'd like you to meet Poppa. Poppa, this is Stephen."
"I'm pleased to meetcha, Stephen," said the head in a full, resonant voice.
"Speak properly, Poppa," Esme said. "Meet you."
"Don't correct your father." The head rolled his eyes toward Stephen and then said to
Esme, "Turn me a bit, so I can see your friend without eyestrain." The head had white hair, which
was a bit yellowed on the ends. It was neatly trimmed at the sides and combed up into a pompadour
in the front. The face was strong, although already gone to seed. It was the face of a man in his
late sixties, lined and suntanned.
"What shall I call, uh, him?" Stephen asked.
"You may speak to me directly, son," said the head. "My given name is Elliot."
"Pleased to meetcha," Stephen said, recouping. He had heard of such things; but had never
seen one before.
"These are going to be all the rage in the next few months," Esme said. "They aren't on
the mass market yet, but you can imagine their potential for both adults and children. They can be
programmed to talk and react very realistically."
"So I see," Stephen said.
The head smiled, accepting the compliment.
"He also learns and thinks quite well," Esme continued.
"I should hope so," said the head.
The room was buzzing with conversation. At the other end, a small dance band was playing a
waltz. Only a few Europeans and Americans openly stared at the head; the
Africans and Asians, who were in the majority, pretended to ignore it. The little boy was staring
unabashedly.
"Is your father alive?" Stephen asked.
"1 am her father," the head said, its face betraying its impatience. "At least give me
some respect."
"Be civil, or I'll close you up," Esme said, piqued. She looked at Stephen. "Yes, he died
recently. That's the reason I'm taking this trip, and that's the reason for this . . . ." She
nodded to the head. "He's marvelous, though. He is my father in every way." Then, mischievously,
she said, "Well, I did make a few changes. Poppa was very demanding, you know."
"You ungrateful-"
"Shut up. Poppa."
And Poppa simply shut his eyes.
"That's all I have to say," Esme said, "and he turns himself off. In case you aren't as
perceptive as I think you are, I love Poppa very much."
The little boy, unable to control his curiosity any longer, came over to the table, just
as Esme was putting Poppa back in the box. In his rush to get to the table, he knocked over one of
the ivy pots along the wall. "Why'd you put him away?" he asked. "I want to talk to him. Take him
out, just for a minute."
"No," Esme said firmly, "he's asleep just now. And what's your name?"
"Michael, and please don't be condescending."
"I'm sorry, Michael."
"Apology accepted. Now, please, can I see the head, just for a minute?"
"If you like, Michael, you can have a private audience with Poppa tomorrow," Esme said.
"How's that?"
"But-"
"Shouldn't you be getting back to your nanny now?" Stephen asked, standing up and nodding
to Esme to do the same. They would have no privacy here. -
"Stuff it," Michael said. "And she's not my nanny, she's
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my sister." Then he pulled a face at Stephen; he was able to
contort his lips, drawing the right side toward the left and left toward the right, as if they
were made of rubber. Michael followed Stephen and Esme out of the cafe and up the staircase to the
Boat Deck.
The Boat Deck was not too crowded; it was brisk out, and the breeze had a chill to it.
Looking forward, Stephen and Esme could see the ship's four huge smokestacks to their left and a
cluster of four lifeboats to their right. The ocean was a smooth, deep green expanse turning to
blue toward the horizon. The sky-was empty, except for a huge, nuclear-powered airship that
floated high over the Titanic-the dirigible California, a French luxury liner capable of carrying
two thousand passengers.
"Are you two married?" Michael asked, after pointing out the airship above. He trailed a
few steps behind them.
"No, we are not," Esme said impatiently. "Not yet, at least," and Stephen felt exhilarated
at the thought of her really wanting him. Actually, it made no sense, for he could have any young
woman he wanted. Why Esme? Simply because just now she was perfect.
"You're quite pretty," Michael said to Esme.
"Well, thank you," Esme replied, warming to him. "I like you too."
"Watch it," said the boy. "Are you going to stay on the ship and die when it sinks?"
"No!" Esme said, as if taken aback.
"What about your friend?"
"You mean Poppa?"
Vexed, the boy said, "No, him," giving Stephen a nasty look.
"Well, I don't know," Esme said. Her face was flushed. "Have you opted for a lifeboat,
Stephen?"
"Yes, of course I have."
"Well, we're going to die on the ship," Michael said.
"Don't be silly," Esme said.
"Well, we are."
"Who's `we'?" Stephen asked.
"My sister and I. We've made a pact to go down with the ship."
"I don't believe it," Esme said. She stopped beside one of the lifeboats, rested the box
containing Poppa on the rail, and gazed downward at the ocean spume curling away from the side of
the ship.
"He's just baiting us," Stephen said, growing tired of the game. "Anyway, he's too young
to make such a decision, and his sister, if she is his sister, could not decide such a thing for
him, even if she were his guardian. It would be illegal."
"We're at sea," Michael said in the nagging tone of voice children use. "I'll discuss the
ramifications of my demise with Poppa tomorrow. I'm sure he's more conversant with such things
than you are."
"Shouldn't you be getting back to your sister now?" Stephen asked. Michael responded by
making the rubber-lips face at him, and then walked away, tugging at the back of his shorts, as if
his undergarments had bunched up beneath. He only turned around to wave good-bye to Esme, who blew
him a kiss.
"Intelligent little brat," Stephen said.
But Esme looked as if she had just now forgotten all about Stephen and the little boy. She
stared at the box as tears rolled from her eyes.
"Esme?"
"I love him and he's dead," she said, and then she seemed to brighten. She took Stephen's
hand and they went inside, down the stairs, through several noisy corridors-stateroom parties were
in full swing-to her suite. Stephen was a bit nervous, but all things considered, everything was
progressing at a proper pace.
Esme's suite had a parlor and a private promenade deck with Elizabethan half-timbered
walls. She led him right into the plush-carpeted, velour-papered bedroom, which contained a huge
four-poster bed, an antique night table, and a
desk and a stuffed chair beside the door. The ornate, harp sculpture desk lamp was on, as was the
lamp just inside the bed curtains. A porthole gave a view of sea and sky. But to Stephen it seemed
that the bed overpowered the room.
Esme pushed the desk lamp aside, and then took Poppa, out of the box and placed him
carefully in the center of the desk. "There." Then she undressed quickly, looking shyly away from
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