THE GHOST WRITER

by Geo. Alec Effinger

Geo. Alec Effinger was nominated for a Hugo Award for “All the Last Wars At Once” his story in Universe 1; the final balloting is taking place as this book goes to press, but win or lose, Effinger is obviously beginning to make his mark in science fiction. Here he writes a tale of our distant future, when art is no longer as we know it . . . but artists may not have changed so much. (Maybe one of those faraway writers will someday rediscover this very story; if so, I wonder what they might think of it. . .)

Effinger’s first novel, What Entropy Means to Me, was published in 1972.

* * * *

HE WAS performing before several hundred million people, although he himself was the only person in the huge stadium. Concentric circles of transparent plastic slabs surrounded him, beginning only a few yards from his feet at the edge of the low stage and rising higher and higher, until the farthest row of seats was lost in the late evening’s darkness. Each of the places was occupied by a wandering consciousness, directed and guarded out-of-body by TECT.

Anabben did not put on as energetic a show as the greater writers, but his stories themselves had a greater vigor. Although many of the audience had come to hear Phioth, the majority had been drawn also by the hope of hearing a long and exciting fragment from Anabben.

He sat in a chair in the middle of the shiny black stage. His feet were on the floor, close together, and his hands were resting in his lap. His head did not droop forward, but his expression was drugged and sleepy. Phioth would not sit; no, the greatest of the writers would dash about his small area, shouting his story, or whispering, and earning his fame as much with his acting as with his words.

This fragment was a particularly long one for Anabben. On the three previous exhibitions his story had ended within thirty minutes; the fragments had seemed unrelated, and none had even come close to being complete. There was always the chance that a new fragment might join two of the enigmatic earlier pieces, and a whole framework might begin to be evident. But not today. Here was another piece, of perhaps a totally different puzzle. It was longer, and it was exciting. The audience would be satisfied, but not the scholars.

“He threw another bomb,” said Anabben, reciting slowly with only a minimum of inflection. “A department store fell in upon itself. Shards of brick and glass rained about him, and he was cut and bleeding. He felt nothing but a weird elation. The sound of authority in the explosion, the sound of tons of concrete and steel falling, the sound of hundreds of windows shattering—all these were strangely comforting and exciting to him.”

Many words were unintelligible to those who listened, and indeed, the basic conflict of the story was meaningless. In some way a man seemed to be acting differently, in a new manner unlike people. In many of the stories told by the writers, people behaved in frightening patterns. A small number of persons had stopped attending the performances, protesting that the stories might teach one to act so differently. It would be the scholars, with the creative resources of TECT, who would ponder the meaning of the strange words: bomb, authority, concrete.

Anabben continued. “In the middle of the twisted and charred rubble knelt.” He fell silent. It was clear that he had ended in the middle of a sentence. The audience, in their millions of scattered homes, sighed. Anabben sat quietly for a few moments. Gradually his face became more animated as he appeared to awaken from a deep trance. He stood, alone in the immense stadium, and walked to the edge of the stage. He was tired.

Anabben sat down, awaiting the next performance. He was alone; Vakeis was in his house. Her empty body rested on the low couch by the pond. Anabben guessed that her mind was still here at the stadium, waiting for the great Phioth. Anabben smiled ruefully. How could he expect Vakeis to be waiting for him, when Phioth was performing? He indulged himself in a little jealousy, an emotion rare for people but just eccentric enough for writers. As a writer he had a permanent slab reserved at the stadium. He knew that thousands of people unable to attend the performance would be horrified at his lack of interest.

He decided to stay because Phioth did entertain. And, since he was the greatest of them all, each performance held an element of history. TECT had lit the stage, for the sky was black, now. Phioth appeared from the tect near where Anabben was sitting. Anabben watched him go to the chair in the center of the stage. Phioth’s hands grasped the arms of the chair, and one thumb found the small groove where a small amount of relaxant would prepare him for the exhibition. Unless Phioth’s mind was calm and unafraid, it would not find its goal when TECT hurled it into the great death stream.

Every year TECT was used to send the consciousnesses of dozens of aspiring writers, each hoping to align itself with the drifting residue of an ancient master. Sometimes, as with Phioth, there was good fortune, and the young man’s self would find a comfortable mate. Most often, however, there were no minds waiting to meet the adventurer, and instead of glory, there was raving panic. Of course TECT made each of these unfortunates away, and only the other writers had seen the terrifying display of a living man with his mind in death.

Phioth approached the chair with confidence, though, having made the journey many times and knowing that a welcoming soul waited for him. There were countless elder intellects abandoned to the strange flaming plane after their bodies died. But if the youthful volunteer did not have a mind suitably attuned to one of them, the ghostly traffic was of no use. If the writer were lucky, he would return sane, with a small scrap of lost literature. If the man were supremely lucky, he would find himself matched with a legendary genius, a reflection of his own innate powers.

Phioth was the luckiest, and the greatest, of all the writers. After two centuries of fishing the mind stream, one man had become William Shakespeare/Phioth. Although none of Shakespeare’s works remained in the world, as no literature of any sort existed, the Elizabethan’s reputation had lived and grown. Phioth’s audiences listened excitedly, for every new fragment that he brought back was heard on earth for the first time in two thousand years.

“Resembles what it was,” said Phioth, still in the chair. He rose slowly and, while his face kept the possessed look of the performing writer, his body paced the narrow stage. His hands flew about, pointing, gesturing, threatening. His voice shifted in both tone and tempo, and Anabben marveled at the impact of the nearly senseless words.

“What it should be,

More than his father’s death, that thus hath put him

So much from the understanding of himself,

I cannot dream of. I entreat you both,

That, being of so young days brought up with him

And since so neighbour’d to his youth and humour,

That you vouchsafe your rest here in our court

Some little time; so by your companies...”

Anabben watched enviously. Phioth marched back and forth across the scanty thumbnail stage, and Anabben was caught up in the flurry of motion. This sort of behavior was so provocative, so different, that Anabben wondered that the tectmen did not come to make Phioth away. Here were not only great, dead words, but also some nameless feeling from the past, a dangerous passion that aroused Anabben. The people of Anabben’s time had rediscovered the idea of theater, that certain products of the writer’s mind were to be more than merely read. The scholars and TECT had made a vague reconstruction of the forms of literature, based on the several sorts of fragments they received from their writers.

Phioth spoke on as Anabben considered his own popularity. It was obvious from the content of the story fragments that his source was of another time than Shakespeare. Each writer knew the identity of his long-dead tutor, felt it intimately housed within his transported mind until the connection weakened and the tired vessel awoke. Anabben spoke the stories of one Sandor Courane; the scholars knew nothing about him, and they argued his merits relative to Shakespeare. Courane was less subtle, less universal, but more—involving. Courane had greater popular appeal, and such a phenomenon required study. It was not for Anabben to care what the factors were that maintained his distinction. He secretly enjoyed his fame and, even more secretly, wished ill for Phioth.

“—And I do think,” said Phioth, his fist clenched above his head, “or else this brain of mine

Hunts not the trail of policy so sure

As it hath us’d to do, that I have found

The very cause of Hamlet’s lunacy.”

Hamlet! Another piece of that famous myth. The scholars must be squealing now, thought Anabben. On an impulse he got up, stepped into the tect, and transported home.

The grass was cool beneath his feet. Among the random pieces of roof Anabben could see the first quiet flush of stars. Thin, widely separated panels stood here and there to support the patches of roof and the house’s mechanisms. Among them trees grew, brooks ran, and furniture stood ready for service. At the bottom of the hill Anabben saw a dim light around the couch where Vakeis’ body still rested, while she observed Phioth’s grandiose performance.

The air was chill, and Anabben requested TECT to raise the temperature of his outdoor home. As an afterthought he had the entire area of his estate lit brightly. TECT scattered the night, broke the darkness into ragged shadows, and chased even these small bits of shade among the roots of the trees. Anabben felt better. He walked down to the pond and sat down in the grass opposite his mistress. He waited for Phioth to end.

In a few minutes Vakeis stirred. She sat up and rubbed her neck, which had become stiff during the long period while her mind traveled to the stadium. She noticed Anabben and smiled. “You’re back early,” she said, with a puzzled expression.

“I was very tired,” said Anabben. He did not return her smile. “I saw only a little of Phioth’s reading. Hamlet again, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Very beautiful, but strange. I’m sorry you didn’t stay. There must be thousands who would have given their Vote to see him.”

“I know,” said Anabben, standing and holding out his hand to her. They walked around the pond, which, through TECT, Anabben kept frozen all year long. He led her back up the hill to the meeting area. He did not feel like talking, knowing that anything that he said he would lead her to a discussion of Phioth.

“I enjoyed your performance, dear,” she said.

“I’m glad. Of course, I can’t remember it. Maybe if Charait and the others come over tonight I’ll play it. It is sad how my own work interests me so little.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Vakeis, picking a clump of grass and tossing it toward Anabben’s head. He ducked, and it missed him. He did not laugh.

“No, really,” he said. “I don’t even know why I bother. When you’re competing with someone like Phioth, it’s hard to take yourself seriously.”

“Phioth is one thing, you’re another.” Vakeis could see that Anabben was depressed, more than merely tired from his performance. She tugged at his arm and he stopped walking and looked at her. “Listen,” she said, “you know there are just as many people who love your readings.”

“Not quite,” he said bitterly.

“Well, almost. Shakespeare is a myth. Almost a god. Naturally, people are going to listen to Phioth with different ears. But they enjoy your readings more. The two of you aren’t even rivals. You appeal to different needs, and you both satisfy those needs equally. You were really wonderful tonight.”

“Come on. I suppose they’ll be here soon.”

Reacting to his boredom and his jealousy, Anabben had TECT kill the lights in the house, leaving only a soft glow on the hill as they walked. He requested faint music, but in his growing impatience he stopped that immediately, too. When they got to the top of the hill, Anabben’s meeting area, they saw two men appear from the small tect. The first to arrive was tall and gaunt, with hair braided down to his waist. He wore a pale-blue cloth twined about his body. The second man was shorter and heavier, with closely cut hair and a small beard. He wore no clothing. The new arrivals waved to Anabben and Vakeis, and sat down on the lawn to wait.

“Hello, Charait,” said Vakeis, walking up to the man in the blue robe. He touched her leg and kissed her knee, and Vakeis laughed.

“This is Torephes,” said Charait, holding up the hand of the other man. “If you can believe it, he wants to perform, too.”

Anabben frowned. Charait was no problem; his bits of retrieved literature were from the works of a Mrs. Lidsake. The scholars, with all the subtle forces of TECT, were unable to place her among the other rediscovered, either qualitatively or chronologically. Charait’s performances were interesting from a historical viewpoint, as all performances were, but they were somehow not absorbing. But this new Torephes presented a threat to Anabben, as the potential vessel of another genius that would overshadow Anabben’s meager contributions.

“My friend Charait isn’t joking,” said Anabben. “Only we writers have seen what happens to the unsuccessful aspirants. Perhaps if the public knew how awful it is, soon there would be no new writers at all. How much thought have you given to this?”

Torephes looked very uneasy. Anabben made a mental request to TECT, and the temperature in the meeting area was lowered ten degrees.

“It’s something that I’ve always wanted,” said Torephes. “I understand about the chances. Charait has been warning me for about two years now, but I’m willing.” His expression was so determined that Anabben laughed.

“Then let us wait for the others to arrive, and we’ll talk about it,” said Anabben. “Maybe the inspiration of Phioth has persuaded you unwisely.”

Anabben and Vakeis seated themselves next to the two men. Anabben kept silent, and out of embarrassment, Vakeis assumed the role of hostess, asking the guests if they were comfortable, and if they desired refreshment.

“It is a bit cool,” said Torephes, still ill-at-ease and fearing to offend such a celebrity as Anabben.

Anabben grunted and had TECT increase the temperature by ten degrees. “The dispenser is in that plane,” he said, indicating the single wall in the meeting area. From his comment it was apparent that he was not going to serve his guests, as simple courtesy demanded. Torephes whispered to Charait, and Anabben could hear him suggest that they leave, but Charait just shook his head. After all, Anabben was a writer, the sort of person more inclined to moods than common citizens. And, further, he had just given a performance. Charait took Torephes’ arm and led him to the dispenser.

“Vakeis,” said Charait, “would you like something?”

“No,” she said, “I’ll wait.”

“Anabben?”

Anabben just frowned and waved. Charait requested a small bowl of meat and flowers, and Torephes had a cup of relaxant and some protein bread.

In a short while three people stepped out of Anabben’s tect: a young woman and two old men. They greeted Anabben and his guests, went straight to the dispenser, and joined the others on the grass. The young woman was named Rochei; she was a writer attuned to the poetry of a long-dead person named Elizabeth Dawson Douglas. One of the old men was a famous writer, one whom Anabben envied almost as much as he envied Phioth. His name was Tradenne, and he was also Tertius Publius Ieta. The other man was Briol, who had given his first performance just a few days previously, and had held the audience entranced with a fragment written by Daniel Defoe. Anabben was still sitting sullenly next to Vakeis, and she made the introductions. The easy conversation of the friends stopped when they learned that Torephes wanted to become a writer.

“Did you watch Phioth this evening?” asked Rochei, as she braided Vakeis’ long, dark hair.

“Yes,” said Torephes. “One of my fathers understands how much I want to perform, and he let me use his place at the stadium.”

“Did you enjoy it?” asked Tradenne.

Torephes hesitated. “Phioth is another sort of greatness. You don’t enjoy him. You experience him, if you know what I mean. Not only the genius of Shakespeare, but the genius of Phioth.”

“Exactly,” said Briol quietly.

“I would be interested to know what you thought of my performance,” said Anabben.

There was an immediate silence in Anabben’s meeting area. Suddenly the atmosphere was tense. It was an unfair question, and even Anabben’s notorious peculiarities did not excuse it.

“I thought you were very good,” said Torephes after a long pause. “I’ve enjoyed all of your performances that I’ve heard through TECT. You’re a contrast. Courane is distinctive; he gives us something that we do not have from any of the others.”

Anabben frowned. He stood, causing the others to stare up at him as he paced. “Would you ever ask one of your fathers for a place to watch one of my readings?” he said.

Torephes looked at the other guests for help. It was obvious to Anabben that the young man was humiliated. “This was a special case. Phioth does not perform often.”

Anabben said nothing. He went to the dispenser, aware of a buzz of whispered conversation behind his back. Knowing that the young man would not dare ask twice, he had TECT lower the temperature another fifteen degrees.

“Our friend Briol wanted to be a writer,” said Anabben, after he returned to his place with a cup of stimulant. “He was one of the lucky ones. I’m not sure what arguments your fathers have used, but they can’t know the truths of the matter unless they’re writers, too.”

“I wish that I’d known what it was going to be like before I tried it,” said Briol with a nervous laugh. “There’s a good chance that I wouldn’t have done it.”

“And if you hadn’t gone before Stalele . . .” said Rochei.

Anabben put down his cup and grasped Torephes’ arm. “You ought to listen. We’re going to tell you about what it’s like, and what just might happen to you, and if you still want to be a writer, we’ll know you’re insane.”

“Don’t listen to him, Torephes,” said Charait. “I feel responsible. I brought you here. Perhaps it was a bad idea. Anabben’s tired.”

“No, no,” said Anabben. “Not at all. He shouldn’t think our life is all glamour and glory.”

Torephes tried unsuccessfully to remove his arm from Anabben’s hold. “I never had any illusions that way,” he said.

“Wait a minute,” said Anabben. “I want Briol to tell you about it.”

Briol was sitting quietly, his knees drawn up and his head resting on his folded arms. He was older than anyone else in the meeting area, but the writers had their own special style of respect; he was the least experienced writer, and had to accept their inattention without offense. “Well,” said Briol slowly, “the first time was very frightening. I put my thumb in the groove, and I felt a little pinprick. I waited for the relaxant to take effect and then I just had TECT send me. I mean, out. Instead of to a place. Even with the drug I was still afraid.”

Briol stared at the softly lighted grass as he spoke. He was an elderly man, one who had lived a useful life as a citizen, and his reasons for becoming a writer at such an advanced age were his secret. “For a brief, bright second there was a glimpse of the death stream itself,” he said, his voice growing hoarse. “But before my mind could, well, sicken, I guess, I was rescued by the dead self of a person I know as Daniel Defoe. I was very lucky. That was my audition.”

“And your first performance?” asked Torephes.

Briol looked up and smiled. “I was still afraid,” he said. “I was afraid that this time Daniel Defoe wouldn’t be there. But he was. And he always will be. For me.”

“Tell him about Stalele,” said Anabben, getting up for another cup of stimulant.

Briol said nothing. “Was he the one who auditioned after you?” asked Tradenne. Briol nodded.

“Did he fail?” asked Torephes.

“It was the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen,” said Vakeis.

“Do you want to try?” asked Anabben, sitting down next to Rochei.

Torephes took Vakeis’ hand. “Yes,” he said.

Anabben laughed. “Good,” he said. “Wonderful. Perhaps you’ll land Homer.”

“Don’t joke with him, Anabben,” said Vakeis. “He doesn’t understand his chances.”

“Oh, he knows the risks,” said Anabben. “Come on, let’s get it over with. We’ll all meet on the stage of the stadium.” He rose first, and disappeared into his private tect. The others followed, and TECT transported them to the vast, empty arena.

“Shall we have light?” asked Anabben.

“I suppose,” said Torephes.

Anabben requested light from TECT, and the stadium was flooded with a bright noonday glow. “Don’t be afraid,” said Anabben, leading Torephes to the chair. “Briol is an old man. Death thoughts are his business. Why don’t you think of Vakeis? If you come back with a good one, she may be yours.”

“I may be his already,” said Vakeis sourly. “Why don’t you show him what to do?”

Anabben stared at her angrily. “I gave my performance today,” he said at last. “My mind is exhausted.”

“That’s all right,” said Torephes. He sat in the chair, bending down to inspect the arm that contained the relaxant pin. “I put my thumb here?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Charait. “But you don’t have to do this tonight, you know. Your fathers agreed to let me bring you to meet the others. I don’t know if they mean for you to try your skill so soon.”

“I’ll take the responsibility,” said Anabben. “He looks like a bright, intense boy.”

“I. . . I did it,” said Torephes. “How long. . .”

“You should feel it already,” said Rochei softly.

“Yes.”

“Now have TECT send you,” said Briol. “Just as if you were going to the stadium, or to school, but don’t specify a place. Just . . . away.”

There was a short silence. Then Torephes’ eyes grew wide; his mouth opened, but he made no sound other than a quiet gurgling. His lips drew back in a terrified snarl. His fists clenched, and he half stood up in the chair, his neck muscles straining and his back arched tensely.

Vakeis gasped, and hid her eyes on Charait’s shoulder. Before anyone could say a word three tectmen had arrived and had made Torephes away through the small tect at the edge of the stage.

“No one home,” said Anabben.

“That poor young boy,” said Tradenne.

“He was a fool,” said Anabben. “He got what he deserved. He wanted glory, but he didn’t want to work. Just to parrot the rotting words of some ancient ghost.”

“Don’t you pity him?” asked Rochei.

“No, I don’t. He knew what might happen.”

“But we all started like him,” said Charait. “We all take that chance. You can’t blame him; you did it yourself once.”

“No, I didn’t,” said Anabben quietly.

The others looked puzzled. Anabben frowned; if he explained now he would be doing a service, he thought. There need never be another Stalele, another Torephes.

“Don’t you see?” he said. “All of you, fishing in the wild streams of death for a shred here and a tatter there. But everything you find belongs with the dead, with the dead worlds of thousands of years ago. But not me. Don’t you see? For the first time in scores of centuries, someone is creating. I don’t merely report, I write. There never was a Sandor Courane. His words are from my mind.”

Vakeis began to cry. Charait grabbed Anabben’s wrists. “You are saying that you do not have TECT send you?” he asked.

“No,” said Anabben defiantly. “I have never tried.”

“Then you’ve lied?” asked Tradenne.

“I cannot comprehend,” said Briol. “You are not performing those bits of fiction? You are speaking them yourself? I cannot comprehend.”

Anabben looked from one person to the other. In the strange light in the stadium each face seemed incredulous and afraid. “Don’t you understand?” shouted Anabben. “I do it myself!”

They moved away from Anabben, leaving him by the empty chair. He looked wildly for some sign of approval, of awed surprise, but found only loathing. He started to scream, but stopped when Tradenne raised a hand.

“You are very different” said the old man. Before he finished speaking three tectmen had appeared to make Anabben away.