Overlay

by Barry N. Malzberg

Genres: Science Fiction

Synopsis

Earth was a planet of incompetents, but Simmons was the greatest loser of all. It seemed as if the powers of the Universe were concentrated on grinding his small soul into ultimate insignificance, until the aliens came. To them, Simmons was the most important human on the planet—for only through his mind could they overcome this world.

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 155

Sample

… He had had an unusually bad day at the flats and now, as he left the track disconsolately, a small voice seemed to whisper
to the horseplayer: go to the trots, go to the trots. He was most astounded because nothing like this had ever happened to him before but he resolved to follow the advice and
see what would happen. Arriving at Yonkers, he purchased a program and took a position by the rail, waiting confidently for
the voice to address him again. Three minutes before first-race post it did. Bet number five, the voice counselled and without hesitation, the punter bought five ten dollar win tickets on that horse. He then watched
with delight as number five paced home an easy winner, paying $52.80.


… It continued that way all evening, the voice waiting until near post to whisper its selections, the horse-player following
them in parley until, just before the ninth, he had over seventy-five thousand dollars which, in response to instructions,
he sent in on number three. Driven down to 1–2 by this enormous bet, three broke at the start and trailed the field throughout,
losing by ten or fifteen lengths.


Stunned, shattered, the horseplayer collapsed over the rail, waiting for the voice to explain itself. At long last it did.
Son of a bitch, the voice said in wee small tones, son of a bitch.

by permission of Howard Rowe

‘Clocker Lawton we have sinned. Clocker Powell we have failed utterly, we are washed in the colors of our inequity. Oh New York Turf Letter, Top Turf, we have gone astray; plunged into a sea of darkness; we have lost our way. We have forgotten the lessons of the Fathers:
no fillies against colts; no maidens in straight claimers; no workout line, no bet. We have been greedy. We have chased longshots.
We have failed to learn the awful lessons of the tote. Verily we say unto you that we have lost our way, we are utterly cast aside, our bones are made to run out like sealing wax. Faith of our Fathers, Word of the Prophets, we are lost
and cannot be found. In the dread machinery of the tote we faint from sickness, pray for your blessings. Oh may your mercy
find us again and may we never stray from thy teachings, thy sacred Word until restored again to the freshness of our youth,
we play and gambol like lambs on the fields of desire.’


The Loser’s Litany

Calamity. Or cataclysm. The implications of entropy seem to dominate the universe, all drive and desire to the contrary. Vanity,
vanity, and so forth. Of course it is hard to be precise about this; not as precise, in any event, as one would like to be.
Perhaps the basic problem is that I am simpleminded; I give myself credit for potential which never existed. I cannot be blamed
for this; it is a natural error. My position in the Bureau, after all this time, would certainly hint toward that explanation.


On the other hand, I would still like to believe that I have been the victim of inequities, terrible inequities – politics
and maneuvering, cunning and deceit, manipulation and torment – and that in the long run, all this will come clear. I am still
young, relatively speaking. My career in its richness lies ahead of me. There will be other opportunities, assignments more
worth taking seriously than this, demanding my best.


Assignments. Beyond calamity, assignments. A one to one ratio of devastation and manipulation which would be depressing if
I did not feel that fighting the battle against entropy was the Good Fight. We must conquer malevolence, mindless breakdown,
social fragmentation, By using them on the point of origin. Blight. The obliteration of destiny. Every living being, every
social unit has a moral right to. Its own extension and so on. Granted this and granted that. Taking into account. As you
can see, I am quoting verbatim but with certain gaps and inaccuracies. Fortunately, rote memory is not necessary in this job.
We may refer to procedure when it is needed.


‘The next one is a tough one,’ Hemmings said. (His name is not Hemmings and he did not really say this, but I am looking for
equivalents in pursuit of communication. I do not want to make jargon of these notes. What good would it do to describe what
Hemmings looks like or the method by which he communicates? The important thing is to achieve a dry universality, a point
of common approach. Perhaps I should point out as well that I have no idea as to why I have decided to embark upon this diary. Agents are supposed to leave no written testaments to their mission, even when it is highly unlikely – as in this case
– that our symbols will ever be discovered and interpreted. I could get into serious trouble at Headquarters were they to
ever discover that I have decided to record. On the other hand, who cares about Headquarters at this time? The situation has
become progressively mindless and deteriorative. Those bastards couldn’t possibly understand what is going on here. One must
learn to Follow the Right.)


‘These people are dangerous and insane,’ Hemmings said. ‘The polarities, the constants, the projections, and so on, all of
this would indicate that within a very short amount of time, even by our standards, they will pose a real menace. We have
to stop this, of course. Onward! We must protect our interests and so on. Unity!’


‘Of course,’ I said deferentially. (Deference is one of my assets: I owe much of my reputation in the Bureau to my ability
to be deferential without obsequity. Obsequious without deference. It is all a question of semantics.) ‘I’ve already done
some reading in the case folder. Dangerous people. They appear to have a real streak of malevolence accompanying their dangerous
technology. That makes them doubly fearful.’


‘Well, not the malevolence itself,’ Hemmings said. ‘Malevolence isn’t quite a constant, you know. You’d have to virtually
admit a construct of diabolism to make that work and, as far as we understand, they fail now to accept diabolism. Instead,
they’ve settled for a weak causality. Explication of all acts through consequence and so on. Actually, and this is rather
frightening, they tend to consider themselves basically good. Perhaps it’s the pantheistic instinct once again; you tend to
find it in these limited cultures.’


(We tend to talk in sophistries at the Bureau perhaps more than is truly good for us. Perhaps this has to do with the rather
simple and dreadful nature of our work as well as its mechanical overtone. More will be said of this later, I think, if I
get around to it.)


‘You want me to break down the institutions, of course,’ I said. ‘Get into the core and concentrate on the devastating urges
which lie at the center of their behavior.’ (We also try to get into the center of issues without dissembling. There are so
many cases, so many caseworkers, so few supervisors that we must cultivate efficiency. In a way, I am very proud of the Bureau.
It struggles against difficult odds and does a fine job.)


‘More or less,’ Hemmings said. ‘There’s a rather special overcast to this assignment, however. As far as I can see, we’ll
have to get into this rather unconventionally. Attempting to buckle them through the rational devices won’t work; they’re
too technocratic, and their mores – or those which they think are the mores – are totally insane. So we have to approach them
from the edges, concentrate on mysticism, spirituality, the occult, the irrational. That’s the only way to topple them. You
go in through the approved institutions and they’ll eat you up alive. They’re more insane now than we could possibly make
them.’


‘That means a subpopulation.’

‘Exactly. As it so happens, they have a very convenient subpopulation which is exactly suited for this kind of work. That
makes things much easier for us. Through this subpopulation, their energizing I should say and its manipulation, you can work
in toward the center and bring the whole thing down very quickly. They’d be most vulnerable to this type of approach.’


‘A subpopulation involved with mysticism, the occult, and the irrational,’ I said. ‘I suppose that you want me to become immersed
in their reform politics.’


‘Well, not exactly,’ Hemmings said. ‘The fact is that, as I told you, their most insane devices are considered to be supremely
rational – by them. That wouldn’t work at all; you’d only make the structure appear more solid. No, we’ve carved out the proper
element with which you’re to deal. We have it all written down on these charts and so on, a selected bias, research, collation,
etc. All that you have to do is to go to work on them within the limited scope. Plan D, I suppose. Or perhaps Plan E. It’s
all relative. You’ll have to use some judgment.’


‘Good enough,’ I said. ‘What is this subpopulation?’

‘Well, I don’t exactly know what their name is,’ Hemmings said, tilting back and casting a wistful arc of smoke toward the ceiling. (No arc, no smoke, no ceiling but
I am still hustling equivalents: familiarity must be preserved in these wretched circumstances, goddamn it.) ‘But I can tell
you what they call themselves and then go on from there.’


‘What is that?’

‘Horseplayers,’ Hemmings said. ‘The subpopulation calls itself horseplayers.’

‘Horseplayers?’

‘That’s the appellation used.’

‘Horseplayers. That means they –’

‘Play horses,’ Hemmings finished. ‘Of course, they don’t consider it exactly play.’

This is the origin of the peculiar circumstance in which I now find myself. I have the feeling that my time here is distinctly
limited; likewise these circumtances which are wretched, foul, dealing for the most part with a series of furnished rooms
outfitted with stacks and stacks of desiccate racing newspapers or ‘tipsheets’ from which all power comes but which smell
(I have the sense) terrible and cast an added gloom over the entire operation. For these reasons, I will try to cultivate
a seemly brusqueness, an artistic conciseness, as I move toward the heart of the matter.


Which yet, I do not understand.

What is this doing to me?


Simmons. Simmons the horseplayer. Let us consider him for the moment if we might. He is leaning against the rail at Aqueduct,
surrounded (he feels) by wheeling birds and doom, clutching a handful of losing parimutuel tickets in his left hand. His right
hand is occupied with his hair; he is trying ceaselessly to comb it into place, a nervous gesture which caused one of his
drinking companions (he has no friends) to call him years ago, Simmons the Dresser, a nickname which, unfortunately, never
stuck since his other drinking companions knew his habits too well.


It is 1:43 now, some twelve minutes before scheduled post time for the second race and Simmons is desperately seeking information
from the tote board. He has already lost the first race. The results posted indicate that the horse on which he bet finished
third. Simmons did not have the horse to show or across the board. He is a win bettor only, some years ago having read in
a handicapping book that only the win bettor has a chance to retain an edge and that place and show were for amateurs and
old ladies. He does not know who wrote this book or where it is today but ever since he read this information, he has never
bet other than to win. He is not sure whether or not this has made much difference but intends to draw up some statistics
sooner or later. He keeps a careful record of his struggles; the fact is though that he never totals. (For those who are interested
I say that Simmons has lost slightly less than he might have otherwise lost had he bet place and show, but the difference
in percentage terms is infinitesimal and the psychological benefits of having had more tickets to cash would have well outweighed
the insignificant additional losses.)


Simmons has, then, blown the first race. He has, for that matter, lost seven races in a row, going back to the third yesterday,
a dash for two-year maiden fillies that produced a seven-length victory for an odds-on favorite. Simmons collected $7.50 for
his $5.00 ticket on that one. Before then there is also a succession of losing races, although here, perhaps, Simmons loses
his sense of precision. He is not exactly sure how many races he has recently lost or how long the losing streak has gone on. All that he can suggest at this moment is that he is deeply into what he has
popularly termed a Blue Period and that his situation will have to markedly change for the better shortly or he will be forced
to the most serious and investigatory questions about his life and career. Such as, what is he doing here? And what did he
hope to gain? And why did he make that famous decision some months ago to have it over and done with the horses once and for
all and to make them pay for his psychological investments? And so on. Simmons will phrase these questions to himself in a
low, frenetic mumble, somewhere midway between sotto voce and a sustained shriek and those people in his presence at the time
the inquiries begin, will look at him peculiarly or not at all, depending upon custom or interest. If he chooses to ask them
of himself at the track, he will incite no response at all. There are, after all, so many questioners at the track. The churches
– and I intuit a little of this subject – have nothing to compare with the track in the metaphysical area.


‘Sons of bitches,’ Simmons says, but he says this without conviction or hope; it is merely a transitional statement in the
category of throat-clearing or manipulation of the genitals and means, hence, absolutely nothing. The fact is that Simmons
is not clear as to the identity of the sons of bitches, and if he were confronted by them now or several races in the future,
he would not quite know what to say. Manners would overcome reason. ‘You could have helped me a little with that four horse
in the first,’ he would probably point out mildly, or, ‘Gee, I wish that that kid on my eight horse in yesterday’s starter-handicap
had tried to stay out of the switches.’ Overall, an apologetic tone would certainly extrude. The fact is – and it is important
that we understand our focus at the outset – that Simmons is both mild and polite; also, that he expects little beyond what
he has already received and that when he is talking about the sons of bitches – well, it would be naïve and simplistic to
say that he refers mainly to himself, but as one who is extremely close to that situation, I can suggest that part of this
is valid. (Part of it is not. Everything is irretrievably complex. This must be kept carefully in mind here. The distance
between a winning and tail-end horse in the average field is, at the most, five seconds – five seconds upon which rests the
ascription of all hope and, in certain cases, the actual lives of these creatures. One must be respectful of any institution
which can so carefully narrow the gap between intimation and disaster.)


‘Sons of bitches,’ Simmons says again and opens the copy of the morning Telegraph which he is holding to full arm’s . . .