The Dybbuk Dolls - Jack Dann, ebook, CALIBRE SFF 1970s, Temp 2
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THE DYBBUK DOLLS
Jack Dann
JACK DANN’S
stories have been appearing in science-fiction
magazines and anthologies since the early 1970s; one of the best known
is the 1973 novella “Junction”, deemed worthy of a Hugo or Nebula
trophy by many readers. He edited an anthology of science fiction on
Jewish themes,
Wandering Stars,
and, with George Zebrowski, has
co-edited the collection
Faster Than Light.
Dann is currently at work on
an elaborate cycle of novels spanning a vast segment of the future. His
work is marked by vivid narrative energy and
—
often
—
a concern for
traditional Judaism and its metamorphoses in times to come.
Chaim Lewis had opened the store early. He did not especially mind
Undercity, even though Levi Lewis, his half-brother, told him he would
become sterile from radiation (which was nonsense) and lose his eyesight.
So after two children, why did he need to be potent, and what eyesight? If
he went blind—which couldn’t happen; Dr. Synder-Langer, his eye doctor,
was a state affiliate and went to seminars—what did he care? He could get
a cheap unit in Friedman City (Slung City they called it)—or if he had
saved enough, he could plug a room into the self-contained grid built into
Manhattan City. A bright façade of metal would be much better than the
Castigon Complex. Shtetlfive, located in the qualified section of the
complex, was a very nice upside ghetto, very rich, semi psycho-segregated,
and sensor-protected. But Chaim would only move into a shtetlsection; he
needed the protection of familiar thoughts and culture. That wouldn’t be
so bad. He could still visit Shtetlfive—it would not move for a while, maybe
never. Business, unfortunately, was too good.
Above Shtetlfive was the tiny Chardin Ghetto, poor in material wealth
but high in spirit. They gave all their money (which was considerable) to
their colony on Omega-Ariadne. Koper Chardin ran one of the best
pleasure houses in Undercity with impunity. He even advertised organ
gambling, “for those who want to experience the ultimate gamblers’
thrill.” In fact, it was located on Chelm Street—which was rented by the
Shtetl-Castigon Corporation at an exorbitant exchange—and had been
built on mutual contract to better serve all business interests. Its overflow
(and the poor that could not afford it) provided a moderate part of Chaim
Levi’s business. But most of his money was made on collectors.
“Collectors they call themselves,” Chaim said to no one in particular as
he studied the afternoon trade sheet on the fax hidden behind his
waist-high counter. The small room was dusty and badly lit, but it was
expensively soundproofed so that only a low level of thoughtnoise could
penetrate and influence his customers.
A young woman, dressed in a balloon suit, turned from a display of
magazines on the wall and said, “Those ‘Stud’ magazines. The price?”
She’s got to be upside, very much upside, he thought as he closed his
eyes in mock contemplation. And she’s older than she looks. That’s a
falseface, he told himself.
“Well?” Her balloon suit changed color to fit the surroundings. This
front room, the showroom, was dingy for effect. A dingy shop was a lure
for the passing bargain hunter. Magazines protected by shock fields lined
the soiled white walls, and plasti-glass cabinets displayed small telefac
units, pornographic tapes, and assorted self-stimulation devices:
second-hand handy-randies—robots designed and programmed to
caress—and vibrators complete with controlled frequency and amplitude
of vibration, variable size and surface texture, and temperature control.
And a small sign above Chaim’s counter read non-telepathically: DOLLS
IN STOCK.
“Those magazines are very rare.” Give her time, Chaim told himself.
“Price now, no bartering,” she said, walking over to Chaim’s counter.
Her face was red and smooth—taut synthetic skin over a wire frame.
“Well,” Chaim said, “twentieth-century porno, why the paper is itself
worth—” He paused the proper amount of time. She did not respond
properly. Instead of demanding price-by-law, producing a recorder, and
then haggling within the well-known parameters determined by her own
collectors’ guild council, she pursed her lips and scanned the wall above
Chaim’s head. Perhaps this is a new touch, Chaim thought, but his
concentration was broken by the shouts and jeers of new customers. A boy
of about nineteen, naked to the waist and obviously proud of the male and
female sex organs implanted on his chest and arms, led a dozen people
into the store. He wore his long blond hair in braids and his face was
rouged and lined. He sported one large breast to prove he was a male.
That was the latest fashion. The other six boys also flaunted sex organs on
their arms and chests, but the women were modestly clothed, so Chaim
could only guess at what was concealed.
“Where’s your hook-ins?” asked the blond boy in undercity gutter
tongue.
“In the next room,” Chaim said. “But mind yourselves. There are plenty
of sensors in there.” Another thrill family, Chaim thought. Kinkies. He
guessed from their accents that they were from one of the nearby
manufacturing undercities, although one of them—a spindly girl with a
large mouth and flushed face —spoke with an affected upside accent. All
the undercities were identical spheres, one mile in diameter, buried one
thousand feet below topground. But Undercity was the first; the others
were named after such families and personages as Ryan, Gulf, Rand,
Lifegarten, and other lesser luminaries. Lifegarten was the most powerful.
It connected twelve spheres and had to be governed as a state with its own
undergovernor.
The girl with the upside accent nervously shook her head— another
upside affectation, Chaim thought—and flirted with the blond boy. She
wore her long blond hair in greased ringlets that left tiny stains on her
dress. “Dolls,” she said. “This is the place that sells dolls. Herbesh was
talking about—”
“Shut up,” said another girl, her accent thick with factory twang.
“When you’re slumming with us, shut up.”
“That’s all right,” said the blond boy, laughing. “She’s not even a
collector, much less a creep.”
The woman in the balloon suit stiffened, but ignored the kinkies. They
left to try the feelies, and the room was quiet once again.
So she is a collector, Chaim thought. But she doesn’t want porn, she
wants a doll. For the grace of God and less comments by that
unsympathetic holy man, the
Baal Shem,
he would have to try to dissuade
her. Chaim would have to hurry, though, for Levi would be here soon, and
he did not believe in divine religion—he was trained by atheists in the
army. Now he’s a spy, Chaim thought. And my own bloodspirit.
“You do, I believe, sell dolls,” said the woman in the balloon suit. “I wish
to purchase one, and I’m willing to stand here and bicker for as long as
you like. I know price-by-law doesn’t apply to alien goods.”
“You seem to know what you want. But why want this—”
“Make it fast, but I’ve made up my mind.”
“Then you know about dolls?” Chaim asked, his thoughts drifting.
Something about the kinkies bothered him, but he couldn’t decide what it
was. Perhaps it was something they said. “It’s a perversion,” Chaim said.
“You cannot satisfy yourself with dolls.”
“That’s the idea, isn’t it?” she asked.
“But sex is not supposed—”
“Sex doesn’t concern me.” She rested her hands on Chaim’s counter.
Her suit was changing color, affected by the shifting colors that streamed
in through the small high windows shaped like pentagrams. “I’m a
neuter—by choice, of course. You should be familiar with that. Doesn’t
your church advocate neutering your young until they are ready for
marriage to keep them pure?”
Chaim finished the sentence in his mind.
In the eyes of God.
He studied
her face. It was too perfect a job, he thought. There were no character
lines, no deviations, no pocks or scars, and her pug nose (that was the
style) did not cover enough of her face and her mouth was too thin. But
that’s the way it’s supposed to be, he thought. He could find no sensuality
there, only bland purpose.
“So then why do you want a doll?” he asked. “It is for sex where the
thrill lies. What more?”
“That’s the point; I want to experience it without my groin. I want it in
my head.”
“But dolls are for frustration, to build up pleasure and then trap it
inside you until it becomes pain. Unbearable pain. Nothing can get out.”
“Must we continue this? I have enough credit. You’ve done your duty.
What more do you want? You Jews want to make money.”
“We just want to live,” Chaim said, thinking about the kinkies again.
Something they said. He had been through this conversation too many
times.
“Doing this?”
“This is all we’re permitted. It’s a long story, and like everything else, all
politics.”
“But your sect has money, in fact it’s very rich.”
Chaim sighed and ran his thumb around the reinforced edge of his
pocket.
Live in Gehenna or be separated. The Diaspora of the rich.
But
almost everyone is rich, Chaim thought.
To overthrow Satan you must
know him. Know him, yet not be corrupted.
“Money is only good for certain things,” Chaim said. “That is part of
Paskudnak’s plan. You have heard of that?” It was working. She might not
buy a doll yet.
She laughed, her mouth twitching at the corners for effect. “That’s a
myth, a fairy tale. There’s no test. No one is trying to corrupt you. No
game. That’s made up to scare your children.” She’s intent on having that
dybbuk, Chaim thought. “Well,” she said. “The doll. Price.”
“If you even look at a new doll, it will take something away. Something
good that lives inside you.”
“Yes, I know.” She grinned. “Price.”
A fool, he thought. “It will actually take the shape of your frustrations.”
“Price.”
“It is not even known if the doll is some sort of mechanical toy, or if it is
alive. No one knows.”
“Price. Pricepriceprice.”
So you win, he said to no one in the room.
Herbesh.
That was the word
that upside girl used. Where had he heard it before? Herbesh. Something
about…
“Your time is up,” said Levi Lewis, stepping in from the street. For an
instant the small showroom was bathed in a lurid yellow light. Old
magazines turned yellow, silver handy-randies glittered, and Levi’s
face—framed between a red-and-silver beard, curled earlocks, and a black
hat with a fur brim—looked withered and pocked. Then the door closed
and the room became dim again. Levi was dressed exactly like Chaim. He
wore a black caftan that reached to his knees. His pants were red, pleated
and cuffed. A glitter belt separated mind and heart from his most
corrupted parts.
“You’ve worked your requirement,” Levi said. “That’s the law.” He
winked at the woman in the balloon suit. Another yellow glare as a couple
entered the store and browsed in the corner. Both wore sequined cloth
dresses, lightbeads, and metal dangles in the form of stars and grotesque
faces. “See,” he said. “More customers to be titillated. My turn, Chaim. Go
away.”
“It’s another
nechtiger tog
outside again,” Levi said. “Day is night,
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