“Mr. Pelazi,” Van said, mockingly cordial. “I’m honored.”
Pelazi took a quick step forward, then stopped with his heels together, his Homburg clenched in both hands, his cane looped over his right arm. “I’ll make my visit brief and to the point, Mr. Branoski,” he said. His voice was deep and resonant, the way it had been the first time they met. Van found himself staring into the depths of the Ree’s eyes.
“Mr. Brant,” he corrected.
Pelazi smiled mirthlessly. “If you prefer.”
“I prefer.”
“Very well. I have compiled a list of alleged literary agents who are today soliciting the majority of smut on the market. You, unfortunately, are one of the chief purveyors. I’ve been systematically eliminating these men, starting at the top and working my way to the bottom.”
“Eliminating? Are you referring to the Belly Statute? Can’t we let that wait until the court...”
“I am not referring to 431. My elimination has been solely on a visit basis. I’ve come to ask something of you, Mr. Branos... Mr. Brant.”
“And what’s that?”
“May I sit down?”
“Please do.”
“Thank you.” Pelazi moved to the chair opposite Van’s desk. He sat down, carefully raising his trousers to protect their crease. He put his Homburg on one arm of the chair, leaned forward, and rested both hands on the head of his cane. His fingers were thin and strong, Van noticed.
“Now then. You’re a businessman, so I shan’t mince words. I’ve come to ask that you discontinue the submission of manuscripts to: a, the magazines, b, the paperbacks, c, the stereoscopic, the three dimensional, and the sensory mediums.”
“You missed one,” Brant said drily.
“Did I indeed?”
“Yes. We’re still submitting material to the live shows.”
Pelazi coughed politely. “We’ll ignore the legitimate theatre in our discussion. I rather imagine you’re not selling them a great deal of material.”
“Especially since the ruckus over the benefit started.” Van smiled. “In other words, Mr. Pelazi, you’d like me to go out of business.”
Pelazi smiled in return. “I did not suggest that.”
“But your statement was heavily loaded with that implication, I would say. Wouldn’t you?”
“I’ll leave the interpretation to your own fertile mind. Do you agree to my proposal?”
The two men made a somewhat ludicrous picture. They sat there with their mouths curled into smiles, but Van’s hands were clenched on the arms of his chair, and Pelazi’s fingers worked nervously on the head of his cane. They stared at each other, grinning, and then the
smile disappeared from Van’s face. He leaned forward abruptly and said, “Don’t be popped, father.”
“Sir?”
“Your proposal is absurd.”
“Oh?”
“You’re asking me to slit my own throat.”
“Precisely.”
“And you expect me to agree to it?”
The smile was gone from Pelazi’s face now. “Suicide is sometimes a more pleasant prospect than execution.”
“Don’t tickle me, Pelazi. The Vikes are firmly rooted; it’ll take more than a threat from you to kick us out.”
“I know that. We now possess the means to destroy you and your ilk, Mr. Brant. Believe me, we are fully prepared; mine is not an empty threat.”
“No, huh? How do you propose to back it up? With bad reviews?” He snorted contemptuously. “Or are you counting on your big trial? Is that your ace in the hole? Hell, Pelazi, I’m not even sure you’ll win, and even if you did...”
“I am not counting on the trial,” Pelazi said softly.
“Whatever you’re counting on, you’re pouring into a seive. Grow up, father, the people are wise.”
“Are they?”
“They are. They are that. Finally, after all these years, they’re wise. Oh so wise, father. They know just what they want, and we’re giving it to them.”
“But is it what they want?”
“I’ve no time for philosophy; and I don’t want to chop psych with you, either. You know what they want as well as I do.”
Pelazi pursed his lips and said nothing. His hands were firm on the head of his cane. Van took his silence for assent.
“It used to be the other way around, Pelazi. The little man was the slob, wallowing in filth, breeding kids he didn’t want, dreaming of adventure he never had and never would have. The paperbacks took a hold then, and the little man began to wake up. He recognized convention for what it really was: a petty disguise of polite society, a subterfuge designed to keep the little man’s feet firmly on the ground, to keep his head from out of the clouds.”
“I’m really not terribly interested in...”
“And at the same time, the body magicians were at work. Wear a Juno bra and you won’t be flat-chested. Use Vitagro on your hair, and you’ll be dazzling. Don’t smell. Use Sosoap. While the paperbacks extolled the merits of vicarious adventure, the advertising industry emphasized clothes, cosmetics, luxuries the little man could never afford, trips to Bermuda, beauty aids, automobiles, dreams. And sex reared its lovely breast. The paperbacks featured busty broads on their covers in full color, a vicarious thrill for a quarter, the thin part of a dollar. Television joined the parade, for free this time, and if you couldn’t see a chick’s navel on Channel thirty, you switched to twenty-nine. The movies clung to their stupid censorship rulings until they realized they were losing out in the big race. They relaxed then, and the results were amazing. Improved three dimensional processes took hold, giving more reality to the vicarious pleasure. And the people liked it. The people loved it. The people...”
“All of which...”
“All of which illustrates a point. Joe Sucker began to understand an important truth. It had been there all along, starting maybe with the now defunct comic books, working its way up through the pulp magazines, through the now extinct hardcover novels, into the pabacks, into television, the movies, the stereos, and right down the line. Now he knew. The make-believe was better than the reality!
“The girl’s behind wiggling on the motion picture screen was a hundred times better and a thousand times more effective than his own wife’s in the shabby, dubious comfort of his own home. The colorful characters of the dream world — the people with names like Drew and Allison and Mark and Cynthia — were having a hell of a lot more fun than the little man was. In real life, a fist fight was a messy thing of blood and gore; in the dream world, it was an honorable culmination to a challenge. In real life, the pure maiden was extolled as the acme of perfection. In the dream world, if a chick didn’t hop into bed after five minutes of casual conversation, she was a Mongolian idiot. ‘Hey!’ Joe Sucker yelled, ‘where have I been all my life?’ He woke up, finally, and the waking was a tremendously powerful thing.”
“The awakening was the doom of society,” Pelazi said.
“No, Mr. Pelazi. It put the little man right where he’d always wanted to be. He changed his name from Joe Sucker to Joel Standish. He forgot about the disappointing realities all around him and concentrated on the pure vicarious aspect of living. He began to enjoy himself for the first time because now his entire world was a make-believe one. He conveniently disposed of the reality, which no longer served any concrete purpose in his life. He was a sucker reborn, and he clasped hands with millions of other suckers, and began having one hell of a good time. Drugs, which had already taken a strong illegal foothold, became as common as cigarettes. Eventually, as you know, they became legal, which was a damned smart move. Marriage took a back seat, treated as the shoddy thing it was, the invention of some fools who wanted to carefully conceal what is basically a somewhat disgusting animal impulse. Archaicism was replaced by new thoughts, new language, new dreams. Society was revitalized. It still is...”