Asimov's Science Fiction 02/01/11 Read online

  The second call is from Delbert P. Jones, Executive in Charge of New Acquisitions for Heaven-Sent Garments. I almost refuse to talk to him. I have had conversations with Jones before, in person and on the VisPhone, and cannot stand the man. His manner is both unctuous and faintly menacing, his smile as devoid of warmth and humor as a shark’s. But avoiding him will serve no purpose except to make him believe I am as afraid of him and his conglomerate bosses as all the other clothing manufacturers.

  Jones wastes no time with amenities. “I understand your son Arthur and your firm’s attorney have urged you to accept our latest offer, but that you still refuse to sell your shares. Isn’t 40 percent of ninety million credits enough for you, Mr. Kampman?”

  “Money has nothing to do with it,” I say. “As I’ve told you before, it’s a matter of honor and pride.”

  “Pride goeth before a fall,” he says cryptically.

  Lies, obfuscations, clichés—those are Heaven-Sent’s stocks in trade. “Are you threatening me, Jones?”

  “Would it make a difference to you if I was?”

  “No, damn you. I refuse to sell my shares no matter what you say or do.”

  He takes a different tack. “If I were to tell you you’d be retained as Eve of Beyond’s president and CEO, would you be more inclined to be reasonable?”

  “Is that what you promised George Metz? That he’d be retained as president and CEO of Hereafter Habiliments?”

  “He would have been,” Jones says, “if he’d exhibited a more cooperative attitude.”

  I look at his shark-smiling face on the screen, his massive body encased in a form-fitting silk tunic that must have cost as much as fifty of Eve of Beyond’s nondurables, his sumptuously appointed office. This man, this money-oozing puppet, could tell me that the Earth revolved around the Sun and I would not trust him or his motives in making the claim.

  “For the last time,” I say, “Eve of Beyond is not for sale, now or ever.”

  “You mean your 40 percent isn’t.”

  “Not my 40 percent and not the 20 percent owned by our stockholders. You may be able to coerce my son, but not the rest of us.”

  “No? We’ll see about that.”

  He pushes a button and the screen goes dark.

  George Metz returns my call as I am about to leave for home. He looks and sounds old, worn out, nervous. He denies spreading rumors about Heaven-Sent, seems hesitant when I ask if he has heard any. At length he agrees to talk to me, but not on the Vis-Phone. Over drinks at “the place where we used to go when I worked for Eve of Beyond.”

  I take one of the new skycabs to the Mission Towers Hotel, then a high-speed elevator to the rooftop lounge with its sweeping views of the city. George is waiting for me, a large glass of whiskey in front of him. His eyes have a glaze that tells me the drink is neither his first nor will it be his last of the day.

  “I shouldn’t have come here,” he says morosely.

  “Why not?”

  “Not in my best interest. Or yours, Kampman.”

  “Well, we’re both here now,” I say. “Tell me about these Heaven-Sent rumors.”

  He drinks deeply, seems to struggle with himself, finally leans forward and says in an undertone, “Not Heaven-Sent—International Interests Corporation.”

  “What about them?”

  “It’s all over, you know. For you, me, all of us. You can’t resist these people, Kampman. No, they aren’t people, they’re machines. Machines.”

  “If you feel that way, why did you sell out to them?”

  “I had no choice. Neither do you. Neither does anybody, anywhere.”

  “You’re not making sense.”

  “The clothing business is only a small part of their operation,” Metz whispers. “A very small part. Why limit themselves? Eh? Yes, and why limit profits when it’s so easy to broaden the customer base and increase the profit margin, in our field and every other?”

  I stare at him. He seems in very poor health, and not only because of his drinking. Disconnected, too. Weighted, fruited with sorrow and preoccupation. He is a dozen years younger than me, yet in the dim light of the lounge he resembles a model customer for Eve of Beyond.

  “What are you trying to say, Metz?”

  He finishes his drink, glances furtively in the direction of the door. “You can’t beat them,” he says. “Can’t beat any of these huge global corporations. They’re already in control and their plans aren’t our plans. Don’t you see that? Can’t you see the shape of the future?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “All right then, forget it. Forget we had this conversation. I’ve already said too much.” Metz stumbles to his feet, lurches a few steps toward the door, then turns back. “You’ll find out, Kampman,” he says. “Sooner or later, you’ll find out.”

  I should have realized what the outcome of the board meeting would be, that it was in fact inevitable, pre-ordained. But I didn’t. I truly believed that my will would prevail.

  I spoke at considerable length, reiterating my position, with passion and eloquence. Emphasized the need to maintain Eve of Beyond’s high professional and moral standards by continuing to provide nondurable clothing that does not sacrifice stylishness or grace, that allows our aged customers to depart with dignity. Urged the others to remember the slogan by which we have operated for a quarter of a century: Leave your loved ones all they deserve.

  My arguments, of course, fell on deaf ears. Arthur’s rebuttal, bolstered by Harold Reedus’s ardent recommendation, left nothing to reason or any other possibility. The five non-family board members, men and women I have known for many years, considered trusted friends who shared my ideals, were in the end overcome by greed. Shares in ninety million global credits were too much for any of them to resist.

  The final vote is 6-1. Heaven-Sent Garments is now the controlling owner of Eve of Beyond.

  I expect Arthur to revel in his triumph after the meeting ends, but he doesn’t. He seems to be almost pleading when he says, “Come to your senses, old man. Do yourself a favor, me a favor, and agree to join the rest of us.”

  “Never,” I say.

  “What good will holding out do you? The company’s not yours or mine any longer. If you hold onto your shares, you know you’ll be replaced as president and CEO as soon as the legal documents are signed.”

  “That doesn’t mean I have to give up, give in. I’ll hire new lawyers, I’ll fight the takeover—”

  “On what grounds? You wouldn’t stand a chance. Heaven-Sent and International Interests have batteries of lawyers a lot more high-powered than any you can hire.” Arthur shakes his head and his fat cheeks wobble like globs of pudding. “Damn it, old man, why do you have to be so stubborn? They’re not going to let you get away with any disruption of their agenda.”

  “What agenda?”

  “Think of the money, can’t you? Think of the life of luxury you can have for a while on 40 percent of ninety million credits.”

  “What do you mean, ‘for a while’?”

  His eyes shift away from mine. “I’m only thinking of your welfare,” he says. “But there’s nothing I can do if you won’t listen to reason. Absolutely nothing. It’s all on your head now.”

  As Arthur shambles away I see Metz’s face hovering as if in a haze, hear him say, They’re already in control and their plans aren’t our plans. You’ll find out, Kampman. Sooner or later, you’ll find out.

  * * *

  The next few days are a blur. Despite my bravado with Arthur, there is virtually nothing I can do now to save my company or maintain its untarnished image. With rapid dispatch I am deemed persona non grata at Eve of Beyond, my office taken over by an expensively dressed stranger who resembles Delbert P. Jones. I can only sit in my empty flat, a broken and beaten man with nowhere to go and nothing to do. No one calls or comes to see to me to commiserate. Arthur does not come to see me. I am completely alone.

  On the fifth day after the takeover, the doorbell finally rin
gs. I open the door without bothering to look first at the viewscreen, thinking it might be George Metz or another old and sympathetic acquaintance. No. A man in uniform stands in the hallway, a large plain box in his hands.

  “Delivery for Mr. Chester Kampman,” he says. He hands me the box, then extends an electronic tracking device and stylus. “Sign here, please.”

  I sign automatically, and when I return the items to him my eyes focus for the first time on the emblem on the pocket of his uniform. A blue and white emblem with bold lettering that spells Heaven-Sent Garments.

  Blindly I carry the box inside and let it fall to the floor. I do not need to open it to know that it contains a plain tunic and bare-necessity accessories. One box—one complete outfit of Heaven-Sent menswear of the cheapest manufacture, designed to last no more than a few months. One and only one.

  I know other things then, too, with a sudden and terrible clarity. I know what Metz meant about the nondurable clothing business being but one small cog in International Interests Corporation’s long range plans, and what he was trying to tell me about the shape of the future. I know the lengths to which the mega-conglomerate can and will go to eliminate competitors and dissidents in order to achieve their monstrous purpose. And I know the meaning of Arthur’s words to me after the board meeting, and the full scope of his betrayal.

  My son has not only sold them my livelihood and my life’s work.

  He has sold them my life.

  Copyright © 2010 Bill Pronzini and Barry N. Malzberg

  Previous Article POETRY

  POETRY

  ENTANGLEMENT, VALENTINES AND EINSTEIN

  he will love you the second time he meets you the third time he knows you though and because before this he will not have known of you at all when you meet him the first time you may already have...

  Flicker

  In fair weather or foul, Someone must steer the ship. To what port or purpose, Justly or unjustly, well, That we can debate. But to any goal or purpose, And not to founder in storm, It is as much...

  TOWER

  I stare at the stones, grey as my days and the little gray mouse who has found its way in. A lifetime I am to stay with only you to hear my prayers and carry them out through the holes in the thick...

  Top of POETRY

  SHORT STORIES DEPARTMENT

  Next Article

  POETRY

  ENTANGLEMENT, VALENTINES AND EINSTEIN

  he will love you

  the second time he meets you

  the third time he knows you

  though and because

  before this

  he will not have known of you at all

  when you meet him the first time

  you may already have loved him forever

  or not ever, even

  if he were the last man

  in the known universe

  and parts of Poughkeepsie

  but you will not know any of this

  until you DO meet

  but once this happens

  the action

  of keeping him at a distance

  would require a court order

  and change nothing

  —W. Gregory Stewart

  Copyright © 2010 W. Gregory Stewart

  Next Article

  Previous Article Next Article

  POETRY

  Flicker

  In fair weather or foul,

  Someone must steer the ship.

  To what port or purpose,

  Justly or unjustly, well,

  That we can debate.

  But to any goal or purpose,

  And not to founder in storm,

  It is as much madness,

  Or childish, irresponsible,

  To neglect to steer the ship

  As to claim to steer the wind

  Or to own the sea.

  Old metaphors speak the same

  Language as our bodies.

  But a world spun so fast

  That future shock is

  A worn out cliché

  Confuses Time’s fashion show

  Of shared experience,

  Intensity of every shade and shape,

  With the sea itself,

  Of whose current wave

  The size and awesome curve

  Obscures sight of

  Who knows what

  Language for eternal generator

  Of sea and wind and fashion

  To fracture the metaphors

  By which we

  Thought we ruled the sky

  And forgot to steer any course.

  —Uncle River

  Copyright © 2010 Uncle River

  Previous Article Next Article

  Previous Article

  POETRY

  TOWER

  I stare at the stones,

  grey as my days

  and the little gray mouse

  who has found its way in.

  A lifetime I am to stay

  with only you to hear my prayers

  and carry them out

  through the holes in the thick walls.

  My fingernails are broken now;

  I cannot attempt another escape.

  But I have found

  the small barred window

  where I sing each morning

  to any passing prince.

  Be he large or small, handsome or plain,

  I will have him.

  Pride and honor are broken now

  On this rack of grey.

  —Jane Yolen

  Copyright © 2010 Jane Yolen

  Previous Article DEPARTMENT

  DEPARTMENT

  Editorial

  Sheila Williams

  ¡AY, CARAMBA! While perusing the June 16, 2010, issue of O Magazine at the beauty parlor this summer, I discovered an interesting sidebar on “Four Books to Steal from Your Teenager.” One surprising recommendation was I, Robot. Blogger and author of Shelf Discovery: The Teen Classics We Never Stopped...

  Reflections

  Robert Silverberg

  When I first discovered science fiction magazines, more than sixty years ago, I rushed out and bought all the back issues of them I could find. That wasn’t particularly difficult to do back then, because there was an abundance of second-hand bookshops in New York City, where I lived, and—though I...

  CONGRATULATES THE WINNERS OF THE 2010 HUGO AWARDS

  Best Novel (tie)The City & The CityChina MiévilleandThe Windup GirlPaolo Bacigalupi Best Novella“Palimpsest”Charles Stross Best Novelette“The Island”Peter Watts Best Short Story“Bridesicle”Will McIntoshAsimov’s, January 2009 Best Related BookThis is Me, Jack Vance! (Or, More Properly, This is...

  NEXT ISSUE

  MARCH ISSUE Our lead story in March is multiple Nebula-Award winning author John Kessel’s quietly moving novelette about a man whose memories are wiped “Clean” both by time and science. Robert Reed closes out the issue with his novelette “Purple”—a brutal depiction of life in a menagerie where a man...

  ON BOOKS

  Peter Heck

  OATH OF FEALTYBy Elizabeth MoonDel Rey, $25.00 (hc)ISBN: 978-0-345-50874-4Elizabeth Moon began her career with a hugely popular fantasy trilogy, “The Deed of Paksenarrion,” about a young woman who becomes first a mercenary soldier, then a Paladin, with magical powers on top of fighting skills and a...

  SF CONVENTIONAL CALENDAR

  DECEMBER 2010 The winter holiday weekends (Martin Luther King Day and President’s Day) are great times for some indoor SF fun. I’ll be at Arisia and Boskone. ChattaCon and ConDor are good bets for Asimovians these months. Plan now for social weekends with your favorite SF authors, editors, artists,...

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  POETRY INFORMATION

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  DEPARTMENT

  Editorial

  Sheila Williams

  ¡AY, CARAMBA!

  While perusing the June 16, 2010, issue of O Magazine at the beauty parlor this summer, I discovere
d an interesting sidebar on “Four Books to Steal from Your Teenager.” One surprising recommendation was I, Robot. Blogger and author of Shelf Discovery: The Teen Classics We Never Stopped Reading , Lizzie Skurnick, wrote “Don’t laugh! If you think Asimov is meant only for thirteen-year-old boys obsessed with computer games, it’s time to look at this classic collection of brilliantly plotted gems that anticipate not only our completely gadget-dependent world but also the philosophical implications of turning our lives over to smartphones.”

  This passage is intriguing because it indicates that a science fiction book first published over sixty years ago, and compiled from stories that had begun appearing in print ten years earlier, is still read by computer obsessed teens and their middle-aged mothers. It speaks not only to the longevity of the book, but to Isaac Asimov’s far ranging impact.

  That Isaac’s book was essentially the genesis of Alan Parson’s 1977 album, I Robot; to some extent the basis for the 2004 film I, Robot, starring Will Smith; and the inspiration for iRobot, the successful robotics firm founded in 1990 by Rodney Brooks, Colin Angle, and Helen Greiner, is immediately obvious. To be responsible to any degree for three such disparate entities is remarkable, but the book’s influence on our society, our thinking, and even our language, goes much deeper.

  From Helen Greiner to MIT’s Marvin Minsky, researchers in artificial intelligence have been quick to acknowledge their debt to Isaac Asimov’s fiction. Isaac, of course, never did the real work of the cognitive scientist or a software engineer.

  He didn’t invent a positronic brain, design an operating system, or create a robotic vacuum cleaner. Instead, he influenced the daydreams of future scientists, engineers, composers, and screenwriters. Isaac’s gift to us was to write entertaining stories about artificial intelligences that could assist, rather than terrify, humanity.

  He wasn’t the first to write such stories, just as he wasn’t the first person to publish a work called “I, Robot.” Credit for the title goes to the brothers Earl and Otto Binder who, writing as Eando Binder, published a confessional tale about a sadly misjudged robot, Adam Link, in the January 1939 issue of Amazing Stories. The Binders’ title was almost certainly a riff on the “autobiography” of Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus—I, Claudius—which had come out in 1934. It was Isaac’s publisher at Gnome Press who, in 1950, appended the name of Earl and Otto’s tale to The Good Doctor’s collection of nine robot short stories.