Read Online Turing & Burroughs: A Beatnik SF Novel by Rudy Rucker - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rudy Rucker
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hand, Alan formed it into—oh, why not a duck’s head, a shape fit for casting candle-shadows on the wall.
The hand drooped, the fingers fused, and—the tip became a shiny yellow beak.
“Quack,” murmured Alan, opening and closing the beak. “Quack, quack, quack. Now resume being my hand.”
His fingers returned to normal, leaving a tingling sensation in the muscles and the skin. He recalled what his Mum used to say when she’d find him making grimaces into the looking-glass. What if you stayed that way?
Alan went back on deck. There was no sign of a lunch, not that he was sure where to look for it. Everyone seemed to be napping or in town. And so he roamed the ship alone over the next hour or two—studying the intricacies of the cargo hoists, the radio antennas, and the smokestacks. He had the run of the Phos . He even made his way below decks and examined the engines.
It soothed Alan to analyze the workings of the ship’s cranes, her communication channels, and her power systems. How clear and logical these devices were compared to the oozy growths of biology—or to the frantic vacillations of the human soul.
Quite aside from any issues involving the skug, Alan was a little concerned about the potential chain of cause and effect running from his street-urchin guide through that so-called Portuguese purser to Alan’s booking passage on the Phos . Could this be an intricate trap? And what was the nature of Vassar Lafia’s prior association with William Burroughs? Rummaging around in Burroughs’s vague and partial memories, Alan could find no clues.
In any case, he couldn’t face the tension of remaining in the Old World any longer. He’d take his chances with the Phos , and once he was in America, then—well, that was something else to worry about.
While Alan fretted and paced, the passengers and crew straggled in—perhaps thirty people in all. Some of the sailors were quite luscious, with dark eyes in olive faces and nicely muscled arms. The passengers were mostly forgettable: commercial travelers, neurasthenic students, retired couples. A mother and daughter pair were noticeable—plump and a bit comical, with identically protruding lips. The mother was pink and blonde, the daughter a bit darker, with a bob of auburn hair.
At the very last minute one more passenger appeared, a tall, pale-faced young American rushing along the wharf, sweaty in a tie and ill-fitting dark suit, his teeth bared with effort, his hair cropped down in a burr. Was that the man whom Alan had seen lying in the alley? He had a curious, undulating gait. Alan overheard the fellow’s name as he booked a passage to Miami: Ned Strunk. Spotting Alan, Strunk gave him a hungry, blank-faced stare, and Alan turned away, repelled.
With hoarse, full-throated blasts from her steam-powered hooter, the Phos churned out through the Straits of Gibraltar and into open sea. Alan’s heart rose to see the land slide away. He was in every sense a new man. Unimaginable adventures lay ahead.
As dusk fell, the dinner bell rang.
“Right this way, Bill,” said Vassar Lafia, ambling by on the deck, eyes red. “Down the hatch.” He led Alan to a low-ceilinged mess-room where the dozen or so passengers took their seats with the captain and three lower-ranking officers.
“Katje,” said Lafia with an exaggerated yet courtly bow to the younger of the two women whom Alan had noticed. Even though her figure was so emphatic, Katje was dressed in a demure blue frock. “And Frau Pelikaan,” continued Lafia, addressing the older woman at Katje’s side. “May we join you? This is my old friend William Burroughs. Scion of a wealthy family and a sought-after tale-spinner. Bill, meet Katje and Frau Pelikaan from Brussels. They’re headed for—was it Lake Okeechobee?”
“You will behave tonight, won’t you, Vassar?” said Katje. She had a throaty Lowlands accent.
“Yesterday makes nothing,” said Frau Pelikaan. “With so few passengers, we
The hand drooped, the fingers fused, and—the tip became a shiny yellow beak.
“Quack,” murmured Alan, opening and closing the beak. “Quack, quack, quack. Now resume being my hand.”
His fingers returned to normal, leaving a tingling sensation in the muscles and the skin. He recalled what his Mum used to say when she’d find him making grimaces into the looking-glass. What if you stayed that way?
Alan went back on deck. There was no sign of a lunch, not that he was sure where to look for it. Everyone seemed to be napping or in town. And so he roamed the ship alone over the next hour or two—studying the intricacies of the cargo hoists, the radio antennas, and the smokestacks. He had the run of the Phos . He even made his way below decks and examined the engines.
It soothed Alan to analyze the workings of the ship’s cranes, her communication channels, and her power systems. How clear and logical these devices were compared to the oozy growths of biology—or to the frantic vacillations of the human soul.
Quite aside from any issues involving the skug, Alan was a little concerned about the potential chain of cause and effect running from his street-urchin guide through that so-called Portuguese purser to Alan’s booking passage on the Phos . Could this be an intricate trap? And what was the nature of Vassar Lafia’s prior association with William Burroughs? Rummaging around in Burroughs’s vague and partial memories, Alan could find no clues.
In any case, he couldn’t face the tension of remaining in the Old World any longer. He’d take his chances with the Phos , and once he was in America, then—well, that was something else to worry about.
While Alan fretted and paced, the passengers and crew straggled in—perhaps thirty people in all. Some of the sailors were quite luscious, with dark eyes in olive faces and nicely muscled arms. The passengers were mostly forgettable: commercial travelers, neurasthenic students, retired couples. A mother and daughter pair were noticeable—plump and a bit comical, with identically protruding lips. The mother was pink and blonde, the daughter a bit darker, with a bob of auburn hair.
At the very last minute one more passenger appeared, a tall, pale-faced young American rushing along the wharf, sweaty in a tie and ill-fitting dark suit, his teeth bared with effort, his hair cropped down in a burr. Was that the man whom Alan had seen lying in the alley? He had a curious, undulating gait. Alan overheard the fellow’s name as he booked a passage to Miami: Ned Strunk. Spotting Alan, Strunk gave him a hungry, blank-faced stare, and Alan turned away, repelled.
With hoarse, full-throated blasts from her steam-powered hooter, the Phos churned out through the Straits of Gibraltar and into open sea. Alan’s heart rose to see the land slide away. He was in every sense a new man. Unimaginable adventures lay ahead.
As dusk fell, the dinner bell rang.
“Right this way, Bill,” said Vassar Lafia, ambling by on the deck, eyes red. “Down the hatch.” He led Alan to a low-ceilinged mess-room where the dozen or so passengers took their seats with the captain and three lower-ranking officers.
“Katje,” said Lafia with an exaggerated yet courtly bow to the younger of the two women whom Alan had noticed. Even though her figure was so emphatic, Katje was dressed in a demure blue frock. “And Frau Pelikaan,” continued Lafia, addressing the older woman at Katje’s side. “May we join you? This is my old friend William Burroughs. Scion of a wealthy family and a sought-after tale-spinner. Bill, meet Katje and Frau Pelikaan from Brussels. They’re headed for—was it Lake Okeechobee?”
“You will behave tonight, won’t you, Vassar?” said Katje. She had a throaty Lowlands accent.
“Yesterday makes nothing,” said Frau Pelikaan. “With so few passengers, we
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