Alfred Bester - The Demolished Man

"Take a hint from an old hand, Gus. Reich can get you into trouble. Be

careful. Remember Jerry Church? Reich ruined him. Don't let it happen to you."

Tate drifted back to the living room; Powell remained in the kitchen, calm and slow-moving, sweeping up broken glass. Church lay frozen against the back door, suppressing the seething hatred in his heart. The Chervil boy was showing off for the lawyer's girl, singing a love ballad and paralleling it with a visual parody. College stuff. The wives were arguing violently in sine curves, @kins and West were interlacing cross-conversation in a fascinatingly intricate pattern of sensory images that made Church's starvation keener.

"Would you like a drink, Jerry?"

The garden door opened. Powell stood silhouetted in the light, a bubbling glass in his hand. The stars lit his face softly. The deep hooded eyes were compassionate and understanding. Dazed, Church climbed to his feet and timidly took the proffered drink.

"Don't report this to the Guild, Jerry. I'll catch hell for breaking the taboo. I'm always breaking rules. Poor Jerry... We've got to do something for you. Ten years is too long."

Suddenly Church hurled the drink in Powell's face, then turned and fled.

At nine Monday morning, Tate's mannequin face appeared on the screen

of Reich's v-phone. "Is this line secure?" he asked sharply. In answer Reich simply pointed to the Warranty Seal. "All right," Tate said. "I think I've done the job for you, I peeped @kins last night. But before I report, I must warn you. There's a chance of

error when you deep peep a 1st. @kins blocked pretty carefully."

"I understand."

"Craye D'Courtney arrives from Mars on the `Astra' next Wednesday morning. He will go at once to Maria Beaumont's town house where he will be a secret and hidden guest for exactly one night... No more."

"One night," Reich muttered. "And then? His plans?"

"I don't know. Apparently D'Courtney is planning some form of drastic action---"

"Against me!" Reich growled.

"Perhaps. According to @kins, D'Courtney is under some kind of violent strain and his adaptation pattern is shattering. The Life Instinct and Death Instinct have defused. He is regressing under the emotional bankruptcy very rapidly..."

"God damn it! My life depends on this," Reich raged. "Talk straight."

"It's quite simple. Every man is a balance of two opposed drives... The Life Instinct and the Death Instinct. Both drives have the identical purpose... to win Nirvana. The Life Instinct fights for Nirvana by smashing all opposition. The Death Instinct attempts to win Nirvana by destroying itself. Usually both instincts fuse in the adapted individual. Under strain they defuse. That's what's happening to D'Courtney."

"Yes, by God! And he's jetting for me!"

"@kins will see D'Courtney Thursday morning in an effort to dissuade him from whatever he contemplates. @kins is afraid of it and determined to stop it. He made a flying trip from Venus to cut D'Courtney off."

"He won't have to stop it. I'll stop it myself. He won't have to protect me. I'll protect myself. It's self-defense, Tate... not murder! Self-defense! You've done a good job. This is all I need."

"You need much more, Reich. Among other things, time. This is Monday. You'll have to be ready by Wednesday."

"I'll be ready," Reich growled. "You'd better be ready too."

"We can't afford to fail, Reich. If we do---it's Demolition. You realized that?"

"Demolition for both of us. I realize that." Reich's voice began to crack. "Yes, Tate, you're in this with me, and I'm in it straight to the finish... all the way to Demolition."

He planned all through Monday, audaciously, bravely, with confidence. He pencilled the outlines as an artist fills a sheet with delicate tracery before the bold inking-in; but he did no final inking. That was to be left for the killer-instinct on Wednesday. He put the plan away and slept Monday night... and awoke screaming, dreaming again of The Man With No Face.

Tuesday afternoon, Reich left Monarch Tower early and dropped in at the Century Audio-bookstore on Sheridan Place. It specialized mostly in piezoelectric crystal recordings... tiny jewels mounted in elegant settings. The latest vogue was brooch-operas for M'lady. ("She Shall Have Music Wherever She Goes.") Century also had shelves of obsolete printed books.

"I want something special for a friend I've neglected," Reich told the salesman.

He was bombarded with merchandise.

"Not special enough," he complained. "Why don't you people hire a peeper and save your clients this trouble? How quaint and old-fashioned can you get?" He began sauntering around the shop, tailed by a retinue of anxious clerks.

After he had dissembled sufficiently, and before the worried manager could send out for a peeper salesman, Reich stopped before the bookshelves.

"What's this?" he inquired in surprise.

"Antique books, Mr. Reich." The sales staff began explaining the theory and practice of the archaic visual book while Reich slowly searched for the tattered brown volume that was his goal. He remembered it well. He had glanced through it five years ago and made a note in his little black opportunity book. Old Geoffry Reich wasn't the only Reich who believed in preparedness.

"Interesting. Yes. Fascinating. What's this one?" Reich pulled down the brown volume." `Let's Play Party.' What's the date on it? Not Really. You mean to say they had parties that long ago?"

The staff assured him that the ancients were very modern in many astonishing ways.

"Look at the contents," Reich chuckled. "`Honeymoon Bridge'... `Prussian Whist'... `Post Office'... `Sardine.' What in the world could that be? Page ninety-six. Let's have a look."

Reich flipped pages until he came to a bold-face heading: HILARIOUS MIXED PARTY GAMES. "Look at this," he laughed, pretending surprise. He pointed to the well-remembered paragraph.

SARDINE

One player is selected to be It. All the lights are

extinguished and the It hides anywhere in the house. After a few

minutes, the players go to find the It, hunting separately. The

first one who finds him does not reveal the fact but hides with

him wherever he may be. Successively each player finding the

Sardines joins them until all are hidden in one place and the

last player, who is the loser, is left to wander alone in the

dark.

"I'll take it," Reich said. "It's exactly what I need."

That evening he spent three hours carefully defacing the remains of the volume. With heat, acid, stain, and scissors, he mutilated the game instructions; and every bum, every cut, every slash was a blow at D'Courtney's writhing body. When his proxy murders were finished, he had reduced every game to incomplete fragments. Only "Sardine" was left intact.

Reich wrapped the book, addressed it to Graham, the appraiser, and dropped it into the airslot. It went off with a puff and a bang and returned an hour later with Graham's official sealed appraisal. Reich's mutilations had not been detected.

He had the book gift-wrapped with the appraisal enclosed (as was the custom) and slotted it to Maria Beaumont's house. Twenty minutes later came the reply: "Darling! Darling! Darling! I thot you'd forgotten (evidently Maria had written the note herself) little ol sexy me. How 2 divine. Come to Beaumont House tonite. We're having a party. We'll play games from your sweet gift." There was a portrait of Maria centered in the star of a

synthetic ruby enclosed in the message capsule. A nude portrait, naturally. Reich answered: "Devastated. Not tonight. One of my millions is

missing." She answered: "Wednesday, you clever boy. I'll give you one of mine." He replied: "Delighted to accept. Will bring guest. I kiss all of