Turing & Burroughs: A Beatnik SF Novel by Rudy Rucker

had been. Could it be—an alligator? The beasts were said to be ubiquitous in Florida.
    Alan ran the rest of the way to the front door, stumbling over a stone, frantically milling his arms to keep from falling. He was desperately afraid he’d feel the sudden impact of bone-crushing jaws upon his leg. He pounded on the door and rang the bell. Voices within quietly discussed the intrusion.
    Alan stared anxiously at the gloomy shifting shapes of the shrubbery. Was the alligator coming closer? As he beat another frantic tattoo with the knocker, he felt a sliding in his flesh. Blast it, he’d just lost his Burroughs form, reverting to the familiar shape of Alan Turing—or was it Abby? Evidently his current system of body-organization had several local minima. A sufficient perturbation could nudge him from one valley to the next.
    With an extreme focus of his will, Alan managed to regain his William Burroughs look—just as the door opened. A tall, balding man with a deep tan stood there in the light. By dint of his second-hand memories, Alan knew this to be Bill’s father, Mortimer Burroughs, known as Mote. Mote wore a white shirt and chino slacks. He had a wary expression, but upon seeing the form on his doorstep, he broke into a smile.
    “Bill! The prodigal returns! Come on in, son. You look like a drowned rat. Laura, Billy, come see who’s here!”
    “I’m delighted to arrive,” said Alan, pushing forward into the entrance-way. He was wet to the skin, and his pillowcase was soaked. The tiled hall was furnished in the French manner, with a painted screen, a spindly white chair, a chandelier and a gilded mirror. “Please do close the door immediately,” Alan implored. “There’s an alligator.”
    “Got the DTs?” said Mote, as if playing along with a joke. “Time for some of those New Year’s resolutions, hey?” He shut the door against the flowing night. “Let’s find you some dry clothes to start with, Bill.”
    An older woman who looked a bit like William Burroughs herself came tripping down the white-carpeted stairs, her arms stretched out. She meant to hug him. And close behind her was a lively little boy with a shock of blonde hair.
    “Daddy!” cried the lad. In a flash, Alan realized it was Bill’s son, Billy. Somehow he hadn’t noticed this memory record before.
    “Wait,” said Alan backing against the door as Laura Burroughs closed in on him. “Let me clear up a potential misunderstanding. I’m not actually your son, Mrs. Burroughs. And I’m not this boy’s father.” He fumbled in his pocket to find the letter of introduction that Bill had typed. “I only just happen to look like him—for the nonce. Please be so kind as to read this, Mr. and Mrs. Burroughs.”
    “Oh, what’s wrong with you this time!” cried Laura Burroughs, implacably gathering him into her arms. She smelled like a white, waxy flower. She poked him in the side. “And now give little Billy a hug. Poor thing, he talks about you every day.”
    While Mote and Laura Burroughs examined the letter of introduction, Alan knelt down and faced Billy. The boy looked to be about eight. He had bright, intelligent eyes and a toothy mouth. “Stout fellow,” said Alan, feeling a rush of sympathy towards him. “Well met.”
    “You’re talking funny, Dad,” said Billy.
    “What’s the point of this nonsense?” said Mortimer, tapping the folded letter against one hand. “I can’t make sense of it.”
    Laura snatched the letter and tore it in pieces. “You show up with a stupid joke, Bill? Excuse my language, but it’s like handing someone a card that says, ‘Hi, I just farted!’ Mote, I wonder if it’s time to have him committed.”
    “He thought he saw an alligator outside,” said Mote, lowering his voice.
    “Oh lord. Is he in withdrawal again?”
    “An alligator!” exclaimed Billy, perking up. “Let’s feed him the roast beef bone. Race you to the kitchen, Dad.”
    With a mental sensation akin to slamming a car