Virtual Unrealities, The Short Fiction of Alfred Bester by Alfred Bester Page B

and marched out.
    Downstairs, Mr. Foster got into the car, opened the telephone directory, turned to a page and ran his pencil through a name. He examined the name underneath, memorized the address and started the car. He drove to Fort George Avenue and stopped the car in front of No. 800. He entered the house and took the self-service elevator to the fourth floor. He rang the bell of apartment 4-G. While he waited for an answer he got out the small black notebook and the superior pencil.
    The door opened. To a truculent man, Mr. Foster said, “Good evening. Mr. Buchanan?”
    “What about it?” the truculent man said.
    Mr. Foster said, “My name is Davis. I’m from the Association of National Broadcasters. Were preparing a list of names for prize competitors. May I come in? Won’t take a minute.”
    “Mr. Foster/Davis insinuated himself and presently consulted with Mr. Buchanan and his redheaded wife in the living room of their apartment.
    “Have you ever won a prize in radio or television?”
    “No,” Mr. Buchanan said angrily. “We never got a chance. Everybody else does but not us.”
    “All that free money and iceboxes,” Mrs. Buchanan said. “Trips to Paris and planes and—”
    “That’s why we’re making up this list,” Mr. Foster/Davis broke in. “Have any of your relatives won prizes?”
    “No. It’s all a fix. Put-up jobs. They—”
    “Any of your children?”
    “Ain’t got any children.”
    “I see. Thank you very much.” Mr. Foster/Davis played out the tic-tac-toe game in his notebook, closed it and put it away. He released himself from the indignation of the Buchanans, went down to his car, crossed out another name in the phone book, memorized the address of the name underneath and started the car.
    He drove to No. 215 East Sixty-Eighth Street and parked in front of a private brownstone house. He rang the doorbell and was confronted by a maid in uniform.
    “Good evening,” he said. “Is Mr. Buchanan in?”
    “Who’s calling?”
    “My name is Hook,” Mr. Foster/Davis said, “I’m conducting an investigation for the Better Business Bureau.”
    The maid disappeared, reappeared and conducted Mr. Foster/Davis/Hook to a small library where a resolute gentleman in dinner clothes stood holding a Limoges demitasse cup and saucer. There were expensive books on the shelves. There was an expensive fire in the grate.
    “Mr. Hook?”
    “Yes, sir,” the doomed man replied. He did not take out the notebook. “I won’t be a minute, Mr. Buchanan. Just a few questions.”
    “I have great faith in the Better Business Bureau,” Mr. Buchanan pronounced. “Our bulwark against the inroads of—”
    “Thank you, sir,” Mr. Foster/Davis/Hook interrupted. “Have you ever been criminally defrauded by a businessman?”
    “The attempt has been made. I have never succumbed.”
    “And your children? You do have children?”
    “My son is hardly old enough to qualify as a victim.”
    “How old is he, Mr. Buchanan?”
    “Ten.”
    “Perhaps he has been tricked at school? There are crooks who specialize in victimizing children.”
    “Not at my son’s school. He is well protected.”
    “What school is that, sir?”
    “Germanson.”
    “One of the best. Did he ever attend a city public school?”
    “Never.”
    The doomed man took out the notebook and the superior pencil. This time he made a serious entry.
    “Any other children, Mr. Buchanan?”
    “A daughter, seventeen.”
    Mr. Foster/Davis/Hook considered, started to write, changed his mind and closed the notebook. He thanked his host politely and escaped from the house before Mr. Buchanan could ask for his credentials. He was ushered out by the maid, ran down the stoop to his car, opened the door, entered and was felled by a tremendous blow on the side of his head.
    When the doomed man awoke, he thought he was in bed suffering from a hangover. He started to crawl to the bathroom when he realized he was dumped in a chair like a suit for the