The Starcomber by Alfred Bester Read Free Book Online

conspiracy we dare not fight. This is the life every man lives. Every man does the same things over and over. There is no escape.”
    â€œWhy is there no escape?”
    â€œI dare not say; I dare not. Vox populi. Others have questioned and disappeared. It is a conspiracy. I’m afraid.”
    â€œAfraid of what?”
    â€œOf our owners.”
    â€œWhat? We are owned?”
    â€œSi. Ach, ja! All of us, young mutant. There is no reality. There is no life, no freedom, no will. God damn. Don’t you realize? We are . . . We are all characters in a book. As the book is read, we dance our dances; when the book is read again, we dance again. E pluribus unum. Is she to be buried in Christian burial that willfully seeks her own salvation?”
    â€œWhat are you saying?” Halsyon cried in horror. “We’re puppets?”
    â€œAnswer the question.”
    â€œIf there’s no freedom, no free will, how can we be talking like this?”
    â€œWhoever’s reading our book is day-dreaming, my capital of Dakota. Idem est. Answer the question.”
    â€œI will not. I’m going to revolt. I’ll dance for our owners no longer. I’ll find a better life. . . . I’ll find reality.”
    â€œNo, no! It’s madness, Jeffrey! Cul-de-sac!”
    â€œAll we need is one brave leader. The rest will follow. We’ll smash the conspiracy that chains us!”
    â€œIt cannot be done. Play it safe. Answer the question.” Halsyon answered the question by picking up his spade and bashing in the head of the first clown who appeared not to notice. “Is she to be buried in Christian burial that willfully seeks her own salvation?” he asked.
    â€œRevolt!” Halsyon cried and bashed him again. The clown started to sing. The two gentlemen appeared. One said: “Has this fellow no feeling of business that he sings at grave-making?”
    â€œRevolt! Follow me!” Halsyon shouted and swung his spade against the gentlemen’s melancholy head. He paid no attention. He chatted with his friend and the first clown. Halsyon whirled like a dervish, laying about him with his spade. The gentleman picked up a skull and philosophized over some person or persons named Yorick.
    The funeral procession approached. Halsyon attacked it, whirling and turning, around and around with the clotted frenzy of a man in a dream.
    â€œStop reading the book,” he shouted. “Let me out of the pages. Can you hear me? Stop reading the book! I’d rather be in a world of my own making. Let me go!” There was a mighty clap of thunder, as of the covers of a mighty book slamming shut. In an instant Halsyon was swept spinning into the third compartment of the seventh circle of the Inferno in the fourteenth Canto of the Divine Comedy where they who have sinned against art are tormented by flakes of fire which are eternally showered down upon them. There he shrieked until he had provided sufficient amusement. Only then was he permitted to devise a text of his own . . . and he formed a new world, a romantic world, a world of his fondest
    dreams. . . .
    *
    He was the last man on earth.
    He was the last man on earth and he howled.
    The hills, the valleys, the mountains and streams were his, his alone, and he howled.
    Five million two hundred and seventy-one thousand and nine houses were his for shelter, 5,271,009 beds were his for sleeping. The shops were his for the breaking and entering. The jewels of the world were his; the toys, the tools, the playthings, the necessities, the luxuries . . . all belonged to the last man on earth, and he howled.
    He left the country mansion in the fields of Connecticut where he had taken up residence; he crossed into Westchester, howling; he ran south along what had once been the Hendrick Hudson Highway, howling; he crossed the bridge into Manhattan, howling; he ran downtown past lonely skyscrapers, department stores, amusement palaces, howling. He