Schrodinger's Cat Trilogy Part 28

"There Ain't No Such Thing as Government Interference," Simon translated.

Marlon rolled over and stared at him. "What is it, some kind of paradox?"

Simon smiled in that infuriatingly serene way that the enlightened always smile when dealing with the unenlightened. "It's no paradox," he said. "It's a simple statement of fact."

Marlon moved a few inches away. "You're some kind of mystic?" he asked nervously. The only mystics he had met were on the West Coast, and they were all, in his opinion, bonkers.

"Yes," Simon said easily. "We in the Invisible Hand are mystics; but we are also scientists. Every one of us has an advanced degree in math or quantum physics or computer science or some such field. Our founder, Dr. Rauss Elysium, was an expert in gravitational geometro-dynamics-four-dimensional topology, and so on-before he got into General Systems Theory."

"And you people, with all that math and so on, have convinced yourselves that the government doesn't really exist?" the government doesn't really exist?" Marlon was beginning to get an exciting idea: he would do his Master's on this Invisible Hand Society, as an ill.u.s.tration of the psychological law that the more brilliant a mind is, the more elaborate will be its delusory system if it snaps. Marlon was beginning to get an exciting idea: he would do his Master's on this Invisible Hand Society, as an ill.u.s.tration of the psychological law that the more brilliant a mind is, the more elaborate will be its delusory system if it snaps.

"That's it," Simon said calmly. "A chicken is the egg's way of making more eggs. Government is anarchy's way of making more anarchy. Let me explain...."

"So they were all poisoned by Hollandaise Sauce," Mary Margaret prompted, finis.h.i.+ng her seventh martini delicately.

Blake Williams was deciding that Mary Margaret was a d.a.m.ned good-looking woman, considering that she had been a man until six months ago. He was on his seventh martini, too, and Marjorie Main would have looked like a d.a.m.ned attractive woman to him by then, even made up to look like Humphrey Bogart's mother in Dead End. Dead End.

"Yes," he said, "well, that's not the mystery. They were all rushed to a hospital, and had their stomachs pumped, and they survived. I don't remember what had contaminated the Hollandaise Sauce, but it doesn't really matter. That's not the mystery."

"Well, what is the mystery?" Mary Margaret prompted. She was Encouraging him to Talk, and that suddenly alarmed him. It meant only one thing: she was thinking of going to bed with him.

"Uh," he said, "the mystery was what happened later." He had been thinking she was attractive, yes, but that was fairly abstract; he hadn't really really decided, and when you faced up to it, she was still partly male in his mind. decided, and when you faced up to it, she was still partly male in his mind.

"What happened later?" she prompted.

Dammit! he thought. he thought. I must have had one martini too many. I must have had one martini too many. She was a woman now; no doubt about it. So what was the problem? She was a woman now; no doubt about it. So what was the problem?

"They all came down with the same symptoms again," he said. "The next time they had food with Hollandaise Sauce." The problem was that they would not merely Potter Stewart; there would be a certain amount of fore-play naturally, and they would be Briggsing each other.

"Oh? It was a synchronicity-two cases of contaminated Hollandaise Sauce hitting the same people?" Mary Margaret prompted him again.

"Ah no, it was far weirder than that." What was was the matter? He had Briggsed a lot of women in his time, and had been Briggsed by a lot of them-he always enjoyed a good Steinem Job, G.o.d knows-but still ... there was something a bit f.a.ggoty about it when the woman was an ex-man and still the matter? He had Briggsed a lot of women in his time, and had been Briggsed by a lot of them-he always enjoyed a good Steinem Job, G.o.d knows-but still ... there was something a bit f.a.ggoty about it when the woman was an ex-man and still partly a partly aman in your memory. "Ah," he repeated, d.a.m.ning those martinis, "you see, there was nothing wrong with the Hollandaise Sauce the second time. No contaminant at all. They weren't poisoned. They ah just had the symptoms symptoms of poisoning." of poisoning."

"That is weird," Mary Margaret said, wondering if he was getting so fl.u.s.tered because he had never been to bed with a transs.e.xual before. Well, he was an anthropologist, wasn't he? He should regard it as an educational experience.

"Very weird," Blake Williams said, "because you can't explain it by conditioning theory. Conditioning is a slow process, remember, requiring many repet.i.tions or ah reinforcements. That's how Pavlov's dog learned that bell bell means means food food-repet.i.tion after repet.i.tion. But the dog level or reflex level of these people had learned that Hollan-daise Sauce Hollan-daise Sauce means means poison poison in only one exposure." He should regard it as an educational experience, he decided; after all, he was an anthropologist. in only one exposure." He should regard it as an educational experience, he decided; after all, he was an anthropologist.

"Well, I never believed you could explain everything by conditioning theory," Mary Margaret said. "I'm a Humanist."

"That's all very well and good, I'm sure," Blake Williams said, "but ah scientifically the behavior in question was certainly not mediated through the rational circuits of the cortex and does require ah some sort of explanation. I mean, if it wasn't conditioning, what the Potter Stewart was it?"

"Mmm," said Mary Margaret. "Mmm? How about imprinting?"

"What?" Dr. Williams looked, for a moment, like the Amba.s.sador finding the Rehnquist on the stairs. Dr. Williams looked, for a moment, like the Amba.s.sador finding the Rehnquist on the stairs.

"Imprinting," Mary Margaret said. "When an animal learns something all-at-once-in-a-flash. Isn't that called imprinting?"

Williams stared.

"I think you've got it," he said finally. "How would you ah like to go up to my apartment and discuss this further?"

He was suddenly madly in love with her. She had given him a New Idea.

In San Francisco, Dr. Van Ation had been Briggsing Dr. Dashwood for twenty minutes.

He sounded like a man at prayer. "Oh, G.o.d," he kept repeating. "Oh, G.o.d, G.o.d, G.o.d ..."

Dr. Van Ation was thoroughly enjoying herself. Dashwood had Briggsed her for forty minutes, during which she reached Millet six times, and she was still purring with grat.i.tude.

"Oh, G.o.d, G.o.d, G.o.d," G.o.d," Dashwood croaked, as her tongue continued to excite his Rehnquist. Dashwood croaked, as her tongue continued to excite his Rehnquist.

"And so," Simon Moon concluded, "government is just a glitch. A semantic hallucination."

"Mrn-mn," said Marlon Murphy.

Simon turned around and looked at the boy; and it was as he feared; Marlon was about 80 percent asleep. Simon had been lecturing virtually to himself for several minutes.

"Non Illegitimati carborundum," he muttered. It was his mantra mantra against resentment, wrath, and other diseases of the ego. against resentment, wrath, and other diseases of the ego.

He leaned over and kissed Marlon lightly on the ear.

"Mrn," Marlon mumbled.

Simon got up from the bed and padded into the living room, where he smoked a little more hash and remembered cla.s.srooms back in Chicago, beatings he had received for being intellectual and queer, the first boy he had ever Briggsed (wasn't his name Donald something?), the beauty of Russell's definition of number when he finally grasped it (the cla.s.s of all cla.s.ses that are similar), the first time he was Bryanted (he was afraid it would hurt), the strange out-of-book experience in New York on hash when he saw that the laws that govern us are partly grammatical and partly pure whimsy, and this was very good hash, indeed, because he could almost remember that experience: there was a universe where he was hetero and Furbish Lousewart was President; yes, this was very high-grade hash, indeed, and he almost believed it, and why not? The math certainly did imply such universes, and each universe could be like a book, each book a variation on the same theme, and the Author (if one dared to try imagine such a Being) might even be in a meta-universe which had its own Author, and so on, to infinity....

But then, suddenly (has.h.i.+sh is full of surprises) Simon was weeping, remembering his father, Old Tim Moon, who had been a Wobbly organizer all his life, and Tim was singing "Joe Hill" again: The copper bosses killed you, Joe I never died, said he "Oh, Dad," Simon said aloud. "Why did you have to die, before I ever knew how much I loved you?" And suddenly he was all alone in an empty living room, weeping like an old man whose family and friends were all dead, holding his Social Security check and wondering: Where is the Federal bureau in charge of distributing love?

Which was absurd: Simon had lots of friends, and he was just being morbid.

"Oh, Dad"-he sniffed one more time-"I miss miss you." you."

And then he stopped crying and went and put the Fugs' record of "Rameses the Second Is Dead, My Love" on the stereo. And floated with the music and the hash into a Country-and-Western Egyptian paradise: He's walking the fields where the Blessed live He's gone from Memphis to Heeeeaav-en!

"Well?" Mary Margaret Wildeblood prompted, a bit impatiently. She was naked on Williams's bed and had been Lourding herself, not vigorously, just gently, very gently, not getting too excited yet, merely trying to get him excited.

"Just a minute just a minute," Williams said, sitting in his drawers on the side of the bed, one sock in his hand. It wasn't the transs.e.x thing that was delaying him; he was still struggling with the New Idea she had given him back at the Three Lions. "It isn't just poisoning," he said absently. "Anything "Anything that shocks the whole neuroendocrine system might do it. Yes, of course. Artificially induced imprint vulnerability." that shocks the whole neuroendocrine system might do it. Yes, of course. Artificially induced imprint vulnerability."

Mary Margaret seized his hand and placed it firmly between her thighs. "Imprint that," she said coyly.

"Yes, yes," he said, caressing her absently. "But just listen a minute. o.r.g.a.s.m does it um I think. No, just the first o.r.g.a.s.m. Right? You keep repeating the pattern of the first o.r.g.a.s.m...."

"I don't," Mary Margaret said. "Just up there a bit, on my Atkinson there, there there, ah Christ."

"Yes yes you don't and a lot of people I know don't," he said. "Yes. Um? But the people whose s.e.xual patterns keep changing are a minority, certainly. They've changed their imprints somehow. Um. Yes, yes. Oh, my G.o.d!"

"What is is it?" Mary Margaret was becoming cross; his hand had stopped moving entirely. it?" Mary Margaret was becoming cross; his hand had stopped moving entirely.

"Sorry," he said, resuming the gentle stimulation on her Atkinson and the outer lips of her Feinstein. "I just realized some people keep changing their ideas too. They've loosened the semantic imprints. My G.o.d, that's why conditioning theory is inadequate. Don't you see the conditioned reflexes are built onto the imprints...."

"G.o.d G.o.d G.o.d oh sweet Jesus G.o.d"

"It's a shock to the whole system. People who've had near-death or clinical death experiences. s.h.i.+pwrecked sailors. And oh Jesus I call myself an anthropologist and I never got it before, rites of initiation of course that's what they're all about of course making new imprints...."

"Oh G.o.d oh G.o.d darling darling"

"Yes yes, I love you, new imprints of course, yes yes are you coming on my little darling"

"G.o.d G.o.d G.o.d!!!"

"Ah sweet little darling was it good? Ah yes you look so sweet now there's nothing as lovely as that post-Millett expression but about those imprint circuits-"

"Shut up and Briggs me please please darling" darling"

And so, still reflecting on shock and imprint vulnerability and the changing of s.e.xual-semantic imprints, Blake Williams began Briggsing a person who had been masculine for almost all the years they had known each other, wondering just how queer this was, really.

"Incidentally," Dr. Dashwood asked, "what do you you think the think the Hammerklavier Hammerklavier is all about?" is all about?"

Bertha Van Ation and he were sitting at the kitchen table now, sipping a little peach brandy he had found still remaining in the cabinet, and munching Ritz crackers.

Dr. Van Ation brushed some auburn hairs back from her forehead. "The Black Hole," she said promptly.

"Ah you mean he was feeling dragged down into something he couldn't escape?" Dr. Dashwood suddenly remembered he wanted to look up Jan (or was it Hans?) Zelenka.

"No, not that aspect of it." Bertha munched and frowned thoughtfully. "The suspension of all the cosmological laws. The end of s.p.a.ce. The end of time. The end of causality."

Dashwood smiled. "Some people thought it was the end of music when it was first performed," he said. "You might be on the right track."

"Why thank you sir said she." Bertha grinned. "You really think I'm dragging my own astronomy into the music department."

"You have every right to," he said. "We all see and hear through our own filters. To me, the Hammerklavier Hammerklavier sounds like an unsuccessful attempt at Tantric s.e.x. And the sounds like an unsuccessful attempt at Tantric s.e.x. And the Seventh Seventh and and Eighth Symphonies Eighth Symphonies sound like monumentally successful attempts. That's me dragging my own speciality into the music department." sound like monumentally successful attempts. That's me dragging my own speciality into the music department."

"You are a doll."

"And you're a living living doll." doll."

"Isn't s.e.x great?"

"If G.o.d invented anything better," Dashwood said, quoting an old proverb and adapting it to the Feminist age, "She kept it to Herself."

"And how did I score on your scale?"

"Ten Spelvins of Sincerity, Sixteen Lovelaces of Hedonism, and seven Havens of Tenderness. No, make that eight Havens. You went off the scale."

In Hollywood, Carol Christmas, the Blond G.o.ddess of everybody's fantasies, was sleeping alone for once.

She was still involved in 250,000,000 s.e.x acts every hour.

The quantum perturbations pulsed gently through her atoms, stimulating her molecules, rejuvenating her cells, providing a very satisfactory Trip for her whole neuroendocrine system, and enriching her dreams vastly.

It was perfect Tantric s.e.x, and she wasn't even consciously aware of it.

This was happening to her, and had been happening to her since the release of Deep Mongolian Steinem Job Deep Mongolian Steinem Job, because she was was the Blond G.o.ddess in so many fantasies. the Blond G.o.ddess in so many fantasies.

All over the world, as she slept and even while she was awake in the daytime, the quantum inseparability principle (QUIP) stimulated her gently, because all over the world, every hour, 250,000,000 lonely men were Lourding themselves while looking at photographs of her.

Back in New York, Polly Esther Doubleknit was wandering around her apartment stark-naked.

Her lover of the evening was sound asleep in the bedroom, but Polly Esther was wakeful and thinking of twenty dozen things at once, like the Second Oswald in Hong Kong and whether fish ever get seasick and how splendidly heavenly it had felt when her lover's tongue was up inside her Feinstein and what was the name of the third Andrews Sister-Maxine and Laverne and who? who?-and Silent Tristero's Empire and why so many things come in threes, not just Maxine and Laverne and what's-her-name but Curly and Larry and Moe; and Tom, d.i.c.k, and Harry; and Noah's three sons, Ham, Shem, and j.a.phet; and Groucho, Chico, and Harpo; and Brahma, Vishnu, and s.h.i.+va; and Past, Present, and Future; and Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner; and the three witches in Macbeth; Macbeth; and the three brothers who start on the same quest in all the old fairy tales; and the Executive, the Legislative, and the Judiciary; and of course the Big Three, Pops, J.C., and Smokey; and maybe she should cut down on those diet pills; it was absurd to be wandering around at three in the morning thinking in threes. and the three brothers who start on the same quest in all the old fairy tales; and the Executive, the Legislative, and the Judiciary; and of course the Big Three, Pops, J.C., and Smokey; and maybe she should cut down on those diet pills; it was absurd to be wandering around at three in the morning thinking in threes.

And then there was up-down, back-forward, and right-left, the three dimensions in s.p.a.ce; and Wynken, Blynken, and Nod; and the Three Wise Men, Whozit, and Whatzis-name and Melchior; and Peter, Jack, and Martin, the three brothers in Swift's Tale of a Tub; Tale of a Tub; and Peter, Paul, and Mary; and the Kingston Trio; and Friends, Romans, Countrymen, which was not only a triad, but a progressive triad, one beat, two beats, three beats, one, two, three, just like that, and she would definitely cut down on the diet pills. and Peter, Paul, and Mary; and the Kingston Trio; and Friends, Romans, Countrymen, which was not only a triad, but a progressive triad, one beat, two beats, three beats, one, two, three, just like that, and she would definitely cut down on the diet pills.

Polly Esther finally put a record on the stereo, turning the volume down to low so as not to waken her lover in the bedroom.

She picked the Hammerklavier Hammerklavier sonata, not out of coincidence or propinquity or even synchronicity, but just because it was her favorite of Beethoven's piano pieces. It was her favorite because she couldn't understand it, no matter now often she played it. It was the musical equivalent of a Zen koan to her, endlessly fascinating because endlessly enigmatic. sonata, not out of coincidence or propinquity or even synchronicity, but just because it was her favorite of Beethoven's piano pieces. It was her favorite because she couldn't understand it, no matter now often she played it. It was the musical equivalent of a Zen koan to her, endlessly fascinating because endlessly enigmatic.

The stark, discordant opening bars drove all wandering threesomes out of her mind, narrowing her attention to Ludwig's urgent if incomprehensible universe of structured sound. She was swept into it again, as always, swept along by emotions so deep and yet so austere that n.o.body has ever been able to name them. Once she had invited the world's three most admired concert pianists to a party, just so she could ask each of them, privately, what they thought the Hammerklavier Hammerklavier meant. As she expected, she had gotten three wildly conflicting answers. Another time she had ordered every book in print about Beethoven from Doubleday's on Fifty-third Street at Fifth Avenue and looked up meant. As she expected, she had gotten three wildly conflicting answers. Another time she had ordered every book in print about Beethoven from Doubleday's on Fifty-third Street at Fifth Avenue and looked up Hammerklavier Hammerklavier in the index of each. She got forty-four different opinions that way. in the index of each. She got forty-four different opinions that way.

The music hammered and surged along, carrying her through pain and frustration and loneliness to land, again and again, at things beyond such simple feelings, things that she sometimes felt were extraterrestrial or non-Euclidean or somehow beyond normal human perception. There are some kinds of knowledge, Ludwig had once claimed, that can only be expressed in music, not in any other art, not in science or philosophy. This was the most arcane of such knowledge, Ludwig's most intimate secret, and maybe you weren't ent.i.tled to understand it until you had been to the strange dark places of the psyche out of which he had created it.

It was the childbirth process, of course-and Polly Esther did not consider it a miracle that Ludwig could understand that, he was so obviously bi, at least empathetically-the labor pains going on and on until the act of creation seemed impossible, you would never get there, and yet somehow even in the blocked hopeless feeling you were were getting there; and it was all the terrors of his childhood, all those cruel beatings by his alcoholic father, remembered and not forgiven, never forgiven; but it was also that cold, a.n.a.lytical, almost scientific side of Ludwig, remorselessly following his experiment to its inexorable conclusion: he had discovered or rediscovered that the piano is, among other things, a percussion instrument and he was following the logic of that insight, as he followed every musical idea, to wherever it led him, to whatever abyss. getting there; and it was all the terrors of his childhood, all those cruel beatings by his alcoholic father, remembered and not forgiven, never forgiven; but it was also that cold, a.n.a.lytical, almost scientific side of Ludwig, remorselessly following his experiment to its inexorable conclusion: he had discovered or rediscovered that the piano is, among other things, a percussion instrument and he was following the logic of that insight, as he followed every musical idea, to wherever it led him, to whatever abyss.

And, after thinking all that, Polly Esther knew she still didn't understand the Hammerklavier; Hammerklavier; but as it banged and howled to its defiant conclusion, she got a flash of one aspect she had never registered before. It was the last scene of but as it banged and howled to its defiant conclusion, she got a flash of one aspect she had never registered before. It was the last scene of Papillon Papillon, when after twelve years of horror, Steve McQueen finally escapes from Devil's Island on his homemade raft of coconut sh.e.l.ls and floats off into the Atlantic, as Ludwig floats off at the end of the Hammerklavier Hammerklavier, shouting to the hostile sea and the indifferent sky: "I'M STILL HERE, you sons-of-b.i.t.c.hes!"

And, after that, Polly Esther was cleaned out, drained, purified; no more triangles haunted her. She turned off the stereo, yawned contentedly, and padded back to her bed.

Her lover was still sleeping, twisted around in the covers so that her right leg stuck out, decorated with goose pimples from the cold air. Polly Esther rearranged the bedding to cover the girl, and climbed in beside her, hugging her tenderly once, but not enough to waken her.

Then there were only a few remembered bars of the Hammerklavier Hammerklavier and one more trio drifted up (Wyatt, Morgan, and Vergil, the Earp brothers), and then Polly Esther slept. and one more trio drifted up (Wyatt, Morgan, and Vergil, the Earp brothers), and then Polly Esther slept.

PART ONE.

COMING TO A HEAD.

Art imitates nature.-ARISTOTLENature imitates art.-OSCAR WILDE

WHAT-ME INFALLIBLE?

The first entry of sin into the mind occurs when, out of cowardice or conformity or vanity, the Real is replaced by a comforting lie.-POPE STEPHEN, Integritas, Consonantia, Claritas Dr. Dashwood, as usual, began Friday by scanning the mail.