GOLEM 100 Read online

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  A.D. 2280

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  GOLEM 100

  Alfred Bester

  1

  There were eight of them who met in the hive every week to warm themselves and each other. They were charming bee-ladies, attractive and sweet-tempered despite—or perhaps because of—the fact that they were all secure and assured. (The less-privileged classes called them “high mucky-fucks.”)

  They were not all cut from the identical pattern like insect-type bees. They were intensely individual, human-type ladies even though they were living far in our future. After all, our heirs won’t change all that much. Each of them had her own kinky eccentricity which is the true source of charm.

  Each had a secret name, as indeed we all do, and that was their real reality. Perhaps I’m committing a heinous crime in revealing them—T.S. Eliot insisted that the secret name of a creature, “the deep and inscrutable singular Name,” could and should be known to no one—but the bee-ladies knew them and used them, so here they are:

  Regina, the Queen Bee. It has the old English law pronunciation, Re-JYN-a.

  Little Mary Mixup, who can never get anything straight, including her hair.

  Nellie Gwyn, who would have given the raunchy King Charles the Second an even harder time than her namesake.

  Miss Priss, who still has a girlie-girlie lisp, and as a child was heard to say in praise of her schoolboy beau, “He’s a perfect gentleman. When we cross the street he takes my arm and walks me so I shouldn’t step in the shit.”

  Sarah Heartburn, flinging the back of her hand against her brow and declaiming in thrilling tones, “Go! GO! I must be a-LONE! I wish to—com-MUTE with myself!”

  Yenta Calienta, who knows everything you have in your purse, your tote, your closets, your freeze. Yenta is always trying to make preposterous trades, like her broken hourglass for your antique mah-jongg set with one piece missing.

  And the twins, Oodgedye and Udgedye, which mean “Guess who” and “Guess which” in Russian. Anton Chekhov used those words for dog names in one of his farces.

  That adds up to eight. There was a sort of ninth, Regina’s slavey called Pi, not because she had anything to do with the ratio of the circumference of a circle to its diameter (3.1416) but simply because she’s a pie-faced girl.

  You may want to know whether the bee-ladies were married or single or living in sin or frigid or having dyke affairs or swinging from the chandelier or whatever. The answer is a blanket yes because they lived in the famous or infamous Guff precinct. Much more about the Guff later. But keep in mind that they were all secure and assured in background—they’d all been through the posh colleges called “The Seven Sisters”—and in status and income. So when you meet them alone together with their hair down, so to speak, remember that you’re seeing their Closet-Selves.

  The rest of the world only met poised, attractive women who were insulated from the fears that beset the submerged majority who lived in the Guff; murder, mayhem, rape, robbery, and all other assorted violences too numerous to list. The dignity and charm of the eight ladies was preserved by living in strongly protected homes, using guaranteed, bonded transport, with iron-safe escort service at their call. The only real crise in their lives was the chronic boredom that insulation brings.

  So they entertained themselves (with their hair down) by meeting as often as they could in Regina’s big avant-garde apartment, which could hardly be called a hive, and yet they did behave like bee-ladies. They buzzed with gossip and jokes and chitchat. They played nonsense games. They did bee-dances now and then. They gorged on sweets when they were restless or tired or angry. And there were occasional sad moments when they butted heads to establish an informal dominance-order. Human-types do that along with many other creatures. We’ve been doing it ever since the first primordial DNA molecule told the rest of the DNAs who was boss and proved it.

  Their latest amusement was diabolism. None of them took it seriously. None of them really believed in commerce with the Devil; riding broomsticks and pulling off their stockings to raise a storm and all that sort of nonsense. As a matter of fact, Regina had become interested in the game only because she was a direct descendant of Sir John Holt (1642-1710), the Lord Chief Justice of England.

  Holt was a swinger when he was an undergraduate at Oxford and he ran out of money, as usual. He managed to swindle a week’s free lodging by pretending to cure his landlady’s daughter of an ague. The goniff scribbled a few words of Greek on a scrap of parchment and told his landlady to tie it to the girl’s waist and leave it there until she was well.

  Years later, when Holt was L.C.J., an old woman was brought before him charged with sorcery. She professed to cure fevers with the application of a piece of parchment. Holt looked at the parchment, and you guessed it; the identical phony charm he’d faked years before. Holt burst out laughing and confessed, and the old doll was acquitted. She was one of the last to be tried for witchcraft in England.

  So you can see why Regina was interested but never serious. It was more or less amateur theatricals, playacting with overtones of a parlor concert, fun and games in a deliciously dark key. But the hell of this game was that without their knowledge or intent—repeat: without their knowledge or intent—these darling, good-humored ladies were actually generating a most damnable demon.

  It was a polymorphous quasi-entity never before dreamed of in the entire history of witchcraft and devil lore, a monstrous Golem. No, not the well-known synthetic slave of Jewish legend, but a unique multiplication of the brutal cruelty that lies buried deep within all of us, even the best of us. Freud called it the “Id,” the unconscious source of instinctive energy which demands savage animal satisfaction. Alone and separate, the Id in each of the bee-ladies was under control; but together, consolidated by the fun-diabolism, they all merged.

  8 × Id = Golem100

  Watch their first ritual.

  “Now then, ladies, final rehearsal for raising the Devil. Got your scripts? Everybody ready?”

  “Yes, but is this the realsie, Regina?”

  “No, not yet. For real it has to be all of us together with stage effects. This is just the final tryout, one by one. Invocation, dear, you go first.”

  “Well, all right, but if ANYONE l!a!u!g!h!s—”

  “No, no, Sarah. All Sincere City. Go.”

  Sarah Heartburn declaimed the Invocation.

  Sarah

  – 7

  ---------

  ___0

  “Wonderful! Wasn’t she dramatic, ladies?”

  “All heart. All heart.”

  “Sarah could invoke anything out of the woodwork.”

  “Aye, you mock me, but I felt a C*H*I*L*L when I was chaunting it!”

  “The devil playing footsie with you?”

  “ ‘Twas NOT my foot, Nellie.”

  “Oops! Naughty, naughty.”

  “Now ladies, please! We must be serious.”

  “Doesn’t Satan have a sense of humor, Regina?”

  “Try a clean joke on him, Priss. Now let’s get on with it. Oodgedye, you’re next. Prayer.”

  Oodgedye read the Latin Prayer.

  Sarah

  + Oodgedye

  – 6

  -------------------

  ______0

  “Lovely. I never thought Lat
in could sound so beautiful. Congratulations, dear.”

  “Thanks, Regina. I only wish it made sense, too.”

  “I’m sure it will to the Devil. Now who’s next? Mary Mixup with Pact?”

  “No, me, Regina. Conjuration.”

  “Oh, of course, Udgedye. It’s back to English before we get to the French. Ready?”

  “Willing and able. Stand back, everybody. When I conjure I’m practically a fiend in human shape.”

  “Splendid, Ud, but don’t get too intimate with Satan. He’s not exactly reliable.”

  “You have to be guffing her, Regina, or else you don’t know your way around hell.”

  “And what makes you think so, Nellie dear?”

  “I know the Devil’s big sell when he comes on with witches. He’s got a built on him like a hot elephant.”

  “I hope you find out, Nellie. All right, Ud, conjure the hot elephant to come to hot Nell Gwyn.”

  Udgedye read the Conjuration.

  Sarah

  + Oodgedye

  + Udgedye

  – 5

  --------------------

  ______0

  “Only sensational, Ud. You could sell tickets. Now it’s Pact. Mary, dear, did you practice the medieval French?”

  “I did my best, Regina, but it’s a bitch.”

  “I offered to trade with you, Mary. Mine for yours. Even. Why didn’t you swap?”

  “What, Yenta? Hebrew for French? Some even trade! No, I took from some history experts.”

  “Aye! There is a history in all men’s lives. Shakespeare. Henry IV. And what, pray, did the savants say?”

  “They were kind of vague, Sarah. Nobody’s sure how they talked way back then.”

  “How long ago was medieval, Mary? Like the time of King Charles the Second?”

  “I’m not sure, Nellie. Maybe more like Napoleon or Joan of Arc. I always get them mixed up.”

  “How could you possibly?”

  “They were both generals.”

  “Hmmm. Makes sense. At least to her.”

  “So if I sound funny-ha-ha and funny-peculiar, Regina, remember it’s not my fault.”

  “We’ll remember, Mary. Go.”

  Mary Mixup read the Pact.

  Sarah

  + Oodgedye

  + Udgedye

  + Mary Mixup

  – 4

  --------------------

  ______0

  “Marvy! Simply marvy, Mary. Joan of Arc couldn’t have done better.”

  “Or Napoleon.”

  “Or even the general that heads the Glacial Army.”

  “He’s tough to top.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s a she.”

  “Ladies! Ladies! We must be serious or we’ll never raise the devil. You’re next, Nellie, with Rituel.”

  Nell Gwyn read the Rituel.

  Sarah

  + Oodgedye

  + Udgedye

  + Mary Mixup

  + Nell Gwyn

  – 3

  --------------------

  ______0

  “Wonderful, darling! You rattled those arcane names off like a dance program.”

  “I suppose that makes me the Belle of Hell.”

  “Yes, I can see Satan asking for the next dance.”

  “Or yance, Priss.”

  “Really, Nell! We don’t use five-letter words.”

  “But we think them, Priss.”

  “You think them, Nellie.”

  “No, love, I do them.”

  “Please, ladies, don’t let’s bicker. It’s my turn now. I just adore Vision.”

  Regina rehearsed Vision.

  Sarah

  + Oodgedye

  + Udgedye

  + Mary Mixup

  + Nell Gwyn

  + Regina

  – 2

  --------------------

  ______0

  “Applause, Regina! Applause! Applause!”

  “Thank you. Thank you all. Time out for my sighs. Whoever had that vision was—”

  “Aye, a W*I*T*C*H!”

  “And one of the elephant’s favorites, Sarah.”

  “I was going to say that she was a previous incarnation of me. Nellie. And now, last of all, our two Cabalists. One at a time, please. Priss?”

  Miss Priss recited the first Cabala.

  Sarah

  + Oodgedye

  + Udgedye

  + Mary Mixup

  + Nell Gwyn

  + Regina

  + Miss Priss

  – 1

  --------------------

  ______0

  “Fagin! Positively Fagin, Priss.”

  “Fagin? Who he, Regina?”

  “The Merchant of Venice. I thought everybody knew.”

  “I didn’t. Is that good or bad, being this Venice-type?”

  “The highest praise, dear. I only hope our second Cabalist can do as well. She has the toughest assignment of us all.”

  “And don’t I know it. Listen, I want a trade.”

  “Here we go again.”

  “What do you want to trade, Yenta?”

  “Well, I’ve got the Hebrew down cold.”

  “How’d you do that?”

  “I’m married to a rabbi.”

  “No! A Hebrew Jew rabbi? How voluptuous!”

  “And she taught me. But I had a look at my face in the mirror while she was coaching… Ughsville! So I don’t dare do it twice in a row. My face might stick that way.”

  “Maybe she’ll like it better that way.”

  “Oh shut up, Nellie. I’m offering a trade. You trust me to get it right when we do the whole number together, and I’ll hold the Hand of Glory.”

  “But we’re going to spike it on a candlestick.”

  “I’ll hold it instead. It’ll be more sincere.”

  “You can’t, Yenta. You’ll be sick.”

  “I’d rather be sick than ugly. I’ll hold it. Is it a deal, Regina?”

  “But that thing is so hideous, dear… Well, all right. It’s a deal. Now, ladies, we’ve got the spells letter-perfect but we mustn’t be careless. It’d be maddening if one niggling slip ruined everything.”

  “Are the fiends so fussy, Regina?”

  “All my wicked books say so. It’s a sign of sincerity to Satan. Now, are we ready?”

  “Is it for real this time?”

  “It is, with lights and props. Pi-face, light the Hand of Glory and give it to Miz Yenta. Light the incense and all the other horrid smells. All of us together around the pentacle. We chant in symphonic form. Take your tempo and entrance cues from me.”

  They formed a circle around the pentacle drawn on the floor, with the stately, gracious Regina sitting like a baroque jewel at the head of a ring; Nell Gwyn, all red hair, milky skin, opulent poitrine; Yenta Calienta, tall, dark, handsome, butch; Sarah Heartburn, piercing blue eyes under heavy brows set in a mobile face; the twins, Oodgedye and Udgedye, looking like a pair of succulent Greek slaves; Mary Mixup, wearing her fair hair like a helmet that needs adjustment; Miss Priss, who might have modeled for Tenniel’s Alice in Through the Looking Glass.

  “Now, ladies,” Regina urged in her sweet, flowing voice, “you are no longer ladies. You are wicked witches. Really mean it when you chant. Want the Devil to appear. Yearn for him. Love him. Beg him… Now!”

  2

  Adida Ind’dni was Subadar of the poisonous Guff, a police precinct incorporating the territory of the old Greater New York in the Northeast Corridor. Subadar is a distinguished rank in the Indian military which had been enlisted in most of the world’s police forces by the year of Our Lord 2175. Particular qualities of high-caste Hindus—subtlety, sophistication, deep cultural resources, and profound emotional reserves—ideally suited them to the trying investigation of the psychopathic and psychedelic crime that was a way of life in the Guff.

  Subadar is a title which can mean Viceroy, Governor, Captain, Chief, take your pick. Ind’dni was variously addr
essed as Subadar, Captain, Chief, or Mister. He responded to any and all salutations because he was too exalted in caste and rank to stand on dignity and status. However, he did recoil from one label which the twenty-second-century media had pinned on him: “The Murder Mavin of the Guff.” No one ever dared address him as “Mavin Ind’dni.”

  The Subadar thought he had seen every fatal outrage perpetrated and even created (for new sins were constantly being originated) in the heart of the Northeast Corridor, nicknamed “the Guff” by its brawling inmates, but this horror was unique, and nauseated his sensitive Hindu soul.

  She thrashed in the garbage and trash. She was bound, wrists and legs, with some sort of oozing rope. She was still alive and screaming. Ind’dni wished she would die quickly, for she was covered with a swarm of carpet beetles. These insects are used in natural-history museums to eat the last particles of raw flesh off skeletons preparatory to mounting them.

  The beetles were busily, hungrily, single-mindedly devouring the flesh of the living woman. Bone showed already. Her eyes, nose, ears, lips, and tongue were gone, and she screamed. The beetles welcomed the blood that gouted from the gaps in her face with each cry of agony. Subadar Ind’dni shuddered and did the compassionate thing which would most assuredly imperil his distinguished position in the Guff, if reported. He seized a laser from the holster of one of the uniformed polizei and drilled a neat hole through the woman’s skull.

  There were grunts of relief from his homicide squad, and the Subadar knew that his mercy would not be reported, but an assistant muttered, “Evidence, sir?”

  “Evidence verbal?” Ind’dni asked in his lilting chichi accent. “How accomplished? She could not speak, surely?”

  “No, sir. But written?”

  “Ah yes, to be sure. Written. But with what? You see her hands?”

  “There aren’t any left, sir.”

  “Just so. And the ears? Could she have heard questions? Assuredly not. No. Here we have only evidence factual, and—” Subadar Ind’dni broke off in astonishment. He was unaccustomed to astonishment, and he stared. His squad stared. In one instant, the beetles had disappeared. In that same instant, the binding strands disappeared. There was nothing left but one piece of evidence factual, the gnawed body of the dead woman.