Read Online Turing & Burroughs: A Beatnik SF Novel by Rudy Rucker - Free Book Online
Authors: Rudy Rucker
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piers near the wharf’s end, Alan spotted a Greek-flagged freighter whose name was ΦΩΣ , which he knew from his classics studies to be pronounced Phos and to mean light . This was the freighter that the Portuguese man had recommended. She was a lean, narrow ship, built for speed.
Her deck bristled with cranes, all quite still. Alan sidled up the companionway and found a solitary, dissipated man sitting on a chair drinking coffee. His feet propped on the ship’s railing.
Alan hazarded a hello.
“Yeah, I speak English,” said the man in a New York accent. “Merry fuckin’ Xmas. What’s on your mind, man?”
“I was wondering if I might book passage,” said Alan. “To America.”
“Find a bunk and hunker down,” said the stranger. He had curly dark hair and brown eyes. “Squat and gobble. It’s real slack on the Phos . Yesterday Captain Eugenio shit on the deck and wiped his butt with the flag. Now he’s in town chasing whores.”
“I wonder about the schedule and the rates,” said Alan, not caring for the man’s vulgar tone. “I’m William Burroughs, by the way.”
“Vassar Lafia,” said the stranger, lighting a hand-rolled cigarette that gave off the smell of kief. His unshaven face was oily in the sun. He cocked his head. “I could swear I’ve seen you before.”
“I’ve a poor memory for recent months,” said Turing. “I’ve been in the wars, rather. But I’m back in an approximate state of health. What can you tell me about this ship?”
“She’s a tramp freighter,” said Lafia. “A free agent with no timetable. She snags her cargoes as she goes along. Last I heard, the captain is planning to pick up wine in Madeira, steam flat-out for Miami, then swing down to Havana for some cigars. We’re loaded with olive oil and the man says feta cheese.” He winked at Turing. “I’ve got a tramp cargo of my own. Socko from Morocco in the heels of my shoes. And don’t look inside my toothpaste tube.” Lafia paused, studying Alan again. “I’ve got it. You were in the Café Central. You weren’t talking like a limey then. About four months ago?”
“I’ve been lodging in Tangier, yes,” said Alan, not wavering from his usual accent. “So it’s possible our paths crossed. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather not delve into my private affairs.”
“Visions of the past,” said Lafia, his lips spreading in a grin. “Through the gem-encrusted glass. This August? You said we were dump dogs on a magic carpet—you wave it, Bill? Oh, never mind. I won’t pry. We’ll light off new bombs. And, hey, here comes Captain Eugenios after all. He’ll book you onboard. Lunch is at one o’clock, most days, if the cook’s in shape. Wiggy to have you here, man!”
The black-bearded captain was a hearty fellow with a short attention span. He offered Alan a price of a passage to Miami that was more than reasonable, leaving Alan with forty-odd pounds to spare. And then the captain disappeared for a nap. Alan retired to his own private cabin as well, number 17, a windowless steel cell below decks. The room had a sink and a mirror, a door that Alan could lock. A shared toilet and shower lay further down the passageway.
Alan lay on his bunk for awhile, sorting out his memories of Christmas Day. The skug had crawled onto him and melted into his flesh. It had been Alan’s own idea to convert Burroughs. It wasn’t yet clear to Alan if the skug had a true mind of its own. Perhaps he had been reading too much into the twitches and cilia of his tissue culture. He felt he was still his own man.
But, yes, his conjugation with the skug had changed him. His body was more responsive, more fluid than ever before. Perhaps this was how it felt to be a mollusk. Remembering a bit more from yesterday’s hallucinatory segues, Alan stared at his hand and willed it to change shape.
With a slight sinking of his stomach, he saw his fingers warp and sag like melting wax. Focusing his full attention into his
Her deck bristled with cranes, all quite still. Alan sidled up the companionway and found a solitary, dissipated man sitting on a chair drinking coffee. His feet propped on the ship’s railing.
Alan hazarded a hello.
“Yeah, I speak English,” said the man in a New York accent. “Merry fuckin’ Xmas. What’s on your mind, man?”
“I was wondering if I might book passage,” said Alan. “To America.”
“Find a bunk and hunker down,” said the stranger. He had curly dark hair and brown eyes. “Squat and gobble. It’s real slack on the Phos . Yesterday Captain Eugenio shit on the deck and wiped his butt with the flag. Now he’s in town chasing whores.”
“I wonder about the schedule and the rates,” said Alan, not caring for the man’s vulgar tone. “I’m William Burroughs, by the way.”
“Vassar Lafia,” said the stranger, lighting a hand-rolled cigarette that gave off the smell of kief. His unshaven face was oily in the sun. He cocked his head. “I could swear I’ve seen you before.”
“I’ve a poor memory for recent months,” said Turing. “I’ve been in the wars, rather. But I’m back in an approximate state of health. What can you tell me about this ship?”
“She’s a tramp freighter,” said Lafia. “A free agent with no timetable. She snags her cargoes as she goes along. Last I heard, the captain is planning to pick up wine in Madeira, steam flat-out for Miami, then swing down to Havana for some cigars. We’re loaded with olive oil and the man says feta cheese.” He winked at Turing. “I’ve got a tramp cargo of my own. Socko from Morocco in the heels of my shoes. And don’t look inside my toothpaste tube.” Lafia paused, studying Alan again. “I’ve got it. You were in the Café Central. You weren’t talking like a limey then. About four months ago?”
“I’ve been lodging in Tangier, yes,” said Alan, not wavering from his usual accent. “So it’s possible our paths crossed. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather not delve into my private affairs.”
“Visions of the past,” said Lafia, his lips spreading in a grin. “Through the gem-encrusted glass. This August? You said we were dump dogs on a magic carpet—you wave it, Bill? Oh, never mind. I won’t pry. We’ll light off new bombs. And, hey, here comes Captain Eugenios after all. He’ll book you onboard. Lunch is at one o’clock, most days, if the cook’s in shape. Wiggy to have you here, man!”
The black-bearded captain was a hearty fellow with a short attention span. He offered Alan a price of a passage to Miami that was more than reasonable, leaving Alan with forty-odd pounds to spare. And then the captain disappeared for a nap. Alan retired to his own private cabin as well, number 17, a windowless steel cell below decks. The room had a sink and a mirror, a door that Alan could lock. A shared toilet and shower lay further down the passageway.
Alan lay on his bunk for awhile, sorting out his memories of Christmas Day. The skug had crawled onto him and melted into his flesh. It had been Alan’s own idea to convert Burroughs. It wasn’t yet clear to Alan if the skug had a true mind of its own. Perhaps he had been reading too much into the twitches and cilia of his tissue culture. He felt he was still his own man.
But, yes, his conjugation with the skug had changed him. His body was more responsive, more fluid than ever before. Perhaps this was how it felt to be a mollusk. Remembering a bit more from yesterday’s hallucinatory segues, Alan stared at his hand and willed it to change shape.
With a slight sinking of his stomach, he saw his fingers warp and sag like melting wax. Focusing his full attention into his
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