Side 2. The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch, by Philip K. Dick. Continuing on page 41. Then you admit we really go to Earth. They had argued this point, and it was cardinal, many times in the past.
Fran tended to take the position that the translation was one of appearance only, of what the colonists called accidents. the mere outward manifestations of the places and objects involved, not the essences. I believe, Fran said slowly as she disengaged her fingers from his and stood by the hall door of the compartment, that whether it's a play of imagination, of drug-induced hallucination, or an actual translation from Mars to Earth as it was, by an agency we know nothing of, again she eyed him sternly, I think.
think we should abstain, in order not to contaminate the experience of communication. As she watched him carefully remove the metal bed from the wall and reach with an elongated hook into the cavity revealed, she said, it should be a purifying experience. We lose our fleshly bodies, our corporeality, as they say, and put on imperishable bodies instead, for a time anyhow.
Or forever, if you believe, as some do, that it's outside of time and space, that it's eternal. Don't you agree, Sam? She sighed.
I know you don't. Spirituality, he said with disgust as he fished up the packet of candy from its cavity beneath the compartment. A denial of reality, and what do you get instead? Nothing. I admit, Fran said as she came closer to watch him open the packet.
That I can't prove you get anything better back due to abstention, but I do know this. What you and other sensualists among us don't realize is that when we chew candy and leave our bodies, we die. And by dying, we lose the weight of...
She hesitated. Say it, Sam said as he opened the packet. With a knife, he cut a strip from the mass of brown, tough, plant-like fibers. Fran said, sin.
Sam Regan howled with laughter. Okay, at least you're orthodox. Because most colonists would agree with Fran.
But, he said, redepositing the packet back in its safe place, that's not why I chew it. I don't want to lose anything. I want to gain something. He shut the door of the compartment, then swiftly got out his own perky-pat layout, spread it on the floor, and put each object in place.
Working at eager speed, something to which we're not normally entitled, he added, as if Fran didn't know. Her husband, or his wife, or both of them, or everyone in the entire hovel, could show up while he and Fran were in the state of translation, and their two bodies would be seated at proper distance one from the other. No wrongdoing could be observed, however prurient the observers were. Legally, this had been ruled on. No cohabitation could be proved, and legal experts among the ruling UN authorities on Mars and the other colonies had tried and failed.
While translated, one could commit incest, murder, anything, and it remained, from a juridical standpoint, a mere fantasy, an impotent wish only. This highly interesting fact had long inured him to the use of candy. For him, life on Mars had few blessings.
I think, Fran said, you're tempting me to do wrong. As she seated herself, she looked sad, her eyes large and dark, fixed futilely on a spot at the center of the layout near Perky Pat's enormous wardrobe. Absently, Fran began to fool with a mink sable coat, not speaking. He handed her half of a strip of...
candy, then popped his own portion into his mouth and chewed greedily. Still looking mournful, Fran also chewed. He was Walt.
He owned a Jaguar XXB sports ship with a flat-out velocity of 15,000 miles an hour. His shirts came from Italy and his shoes were made in England. As he opened his eyes, he looked for the little GE clock TV set by his bed.
It would be on automatically. tuned to the morning show of the great news clown, Jim Briskin. In his flaming red wig, Briskin was already forming on the screen. Walt sat up, touched his lips, The button which swung his bed altered to support him in a sitting position, and lay back to watch for a moment the program in progress. I'm standing here at the corner of Van Ness and Market in downtown San Francisco, Briskin said pleasantly, and we're just about to view the opening of the exciting new subsurface CONAPT building, Sir Francis Drake, the first to be entirely underground.
With us, To dedicate the building, standing right by me is that enchanting female of ballad and... Walt shut off the TV, rose, and walked barefoot to the window. He drew the shades, saw out them onto the warm, sparkling, early morning San Francisco street, the hills and white houses. This was Saturday morning, and he did not have to go to his job down in Palo Alto at Ampex Corporation.
Instead, and this rang nicely in his mind, he had a date with his girl, Pat Christensen, who had a modern little apt over on Potrero Hill. It was always Saturday. In the bathroom, he splashed his face with water, then squirted on shave cream and began to shave.
And while he shaved, staring into the mirror at his familiar features, he saw a note tacked up in his own hand. This is an illusion. You are Sam Regan, a colonist on Mars. Make use of your time of translation, buddy boy. Call up Pat, pronto.
And the note was signed, Sam Regan. An illusion, he thought, pausing in his shaving. In what way? He tried to think back. Sam Regan and Mars, a dreary colonist's hovel.
Yes, he could dimly make... the image out, but it seemed remote and vitiated and not convincing. Shrugging, he resumed shaving, puzzled now and a little depressed.
All right, suppose the note was correct. Maybe he did remember that other world, that gloomy, quasi-life of involuntary expatriation in an unnatural environment. So what? Why did he have to wreck this? Reaching, he yanked down the note, crumpled it, and dropped it into the bathroom disposal chute.
As soon as he had finished shaving, he vid-phoned Pat. Listen, she said at once, cool and crisp. On the screen, her blonde hair shimmered. She had been drying it. I don't want to see you, Walt, please.
Because I know what you have in mind, and I'm just not interested. Do you understand? Her blue-gray eyes were cold. Hmm, he said, shaken, trying to think of an answer.
But it's a terrific day. We ought to get outdoors, visit Golden Gate Park, maybe. It's going to be too hot to go outdoors. No, he disagreed, nettled. That's later.
Hey, we could walk along the beach, splash around in the waves, okay? She wavered visibly. But that conversation we had just before...
There was no conversation. I haven't seen you in a week, not since last Saturday. He made his tone as firm and full of conviction as possible. I'll drop by your place in half an hour and pick you up.
Wear your swimsuit, you know, the yellow one, the Spanish one, that has a halter. Oh, she said disdainfully, that's completely out of fashion now. I have a new one from Sweden.
You haven't seen it. I'll wear that, if it's permitted. The girl at A&F wasn't sure. It's a deal, he said, and rang off. A half hour later in his Jaguar, he landed on the elevated field of her conapt building.
Pat wore a sweater and slacks. The swimsuit, she explained, was on underneath. Carrying a picnic basket, she followed him up the ramp to his parked ship.
Eager and pretty, she hurried ahead of him, pattering along in her sandals. It was all working out as he had hoped. This was going to be a swell day after all.
After his initial trepidations had evaporated, as thank God they had. Wait until you see this swimsuit, she said as she slid into the parked ship, the basket on her lap. It's really daring.
It hardly exists. Actually, you sort of have to have faith to believe in it. As he got in beside her, she leaned against him.
I've been thinking over that conversation we had. Let me finish. She put her fingers against his lips, silencing him. I know it took place, Walt, but in a way you're right.
In fact, basically, you have the proper attitude. We should try to obtain as much from this as possible. Our time is short enough as it is, at least so it seems to me.
She smiled wanly. So drive as fast as you can. I want to get to the ocean.
Almost at once they were setting down in the parking lot at the edge of the beach. It's going to be hotter, Pat said soberly. Every day, isn't it, until finally it's unbearable? She tugged off her sweater, then, shifting about on the seat of the ship, managed to struggle out of her slacks.
But we won't live that long. It'll be another fifty years before no one can go outside at noon. Like they say, become mad dogs and Englishmen.
We're not that yet. She opened the door and... stepped out in her swimsuit, and she had been correct.
It took faith in things unseen to make the suit out at all. It was perfectly satisfactory to both of them. Together, he and she plodded along the wet, hard-packed sand, examining jellyfish shells and pebbles, the debris tossed up by the waves. What year is this?
Pat asked him suddenly, halting. The wind blew her untied hair back. It lifted in a mass of cloud-like yellow, clear and bright and utterly clean, each strand separate.
He said, Well, I guess it's... And then he could not recall. It eluded him. Damn, he said crossly.
Well, it doesn't matter. Linking arms with him, she trudged on. Look, there's that little secluded spot ahead, past... those rocks. She increased her tempo of motion.
Her body rippled as her strong, taut muscles strained against the wind and the sand and the old, familiar gravity of a world lost long ago. Am I... what's her name?
Fran? she asked suddenly. She stepped past the rocks. Foam and water rolled over her feet, her ankles.
Laughing, she leaped, shivered from the sudden chill. Or am I Patricia Christensen? With both hands, she smoothed her hair.
This is blonde, so I must be Pat. Perky Pat. She disappeared beyond the rocks.
He quickly followed, scrambling after her. I used to be Fran, she said over her shoulder. But that doesn't matter now.
I could have been anyone before. Fran, or Helen, or Mary. And it wouldn't matter now, right? No.
He disagreed, catching up with her. Panting, he said, It's important that your Fran, in essence, in essence, she threw herself down on the sand, lay resting on her elbow, drawing, by means of a sharp black rock, in savage swipes, which left deeply gouged lines. Almost at once she tossed the rock away and sat around to face the ocean. But the accidents, they're pat. She put her hands beneath her breasts, then, languidly lifting them, a puzzled expression on her face.
These, she said, are Pats, not mine. Mine are smaller, I remember. He seated himself beside her, saying nothing. We're here, she said presently, to do what we can't do back at the hovel, back where we've left our corruptible bodies. As long as we keep our layouts in repair, this, she gestured at the ocean, then once more touched herself unbelievingly, it can't decay, can it?
We've put on immortality. All at once she lay back, flat against the sand, and shut her eyes, one arm over her face. And since we're here and we can do things, denied us at the hovel, then your theory is we ought to do those things.
We ought to take advantage of the opportunity. He leaned over her, bent and kissed her on the mouth. Inside his mind, a voice thought, But I can do this any time.
And, in the limbs of his body, an alien mastery asserted itself. He sat back, away from the girl. After all, Norm Schein thought, I'm married to her.
He laughed then. Who said you could use my layout? Sam Regan thought angrily. Get out of my compartment. And I bet it's my can-be, too.
You are- Offered it to us, the co-inhabitant of his mind-body answered, so I decided to take you up on it. I'm here too, Todd Morris thought, and if you want my opinion, nobody asked you for yours, Norm Schein thought angrily. In fact, nobody asked you to come along.
Why don't you go back up and mess with that run-down, no-good garden of yours where you ought to be, Todd Morris thought calmly. I'm with Sam. I don't get a chance to do this except...
here. The power of his will combined with Sam's. Once more, Walt bent over the reclining girl.
Once again, he kissed her on the mouth, this time heavily, with increased agitation. Without opening her eyes, Pat said in a low voice, I'm here too. This is Helen, she added, and also Mary. But we're not using your supply of candy, Sam. We brought some we had already.
She put her arms around him as the three inhabitants of Perky Pat joined in unison in one endeavor. Taken by surprise, Sam Regan broke contact with Todd Morris. He joined the effort of Norm Shine, and Walt sat back away from Perky Pat. The waves of the ocean lapped at the two of them as they silently reclined together on the beach.
Two figures comprising the essences of six persons. Two in six. Sam Regan thought.
The mystery repeated. How is it accomplished? The old question again. But all I care about, he thought, is whether they're using up my candy, and I bet they are.
I don't care what they say. I don't believe them. Rising to her feet, Perky Pat said, well, I can see I might just as well go for a swim.
Nothing's doing here. She padded into the water. splashed away from them as they sat in their body watching her go.
We missed our chance, Todd Morris thought wryly. My fault, Sam admitted. By joining, he and Todd managed to stand, and they walked a few steps after the girl, and then, ankle-deep in the water, halted.
Already, Sam Regan could feel the power of the drug wearing off. He felt weak and afraid and bitterly sickened at the realization. So goddamn soon, he said to himself. All over, back to the hovel, to the pit, in which we twist and cringe like worms in a paper bag, huddled away from the daylight, pale and white and awful. He shuddered, shuddered, and saw once more his compartment with its tinny bed, washstand, desk, kitchen stove, and in slumped, inert heaps, the empty husks of Todd and Helen Morris, Fran and Norm Shine, his own wife Mary.
Their eyes stared emptily, and he looked away appalled. On the floor between them was his layout. He looked down and saw the dolls, Walt and Pat, placed at the edge of the ocean near the parked Jaguar.
Sure enough, Perky Pat had on the near-invisible Swedish swimsuit, and next to them reposed a tiny picnic basket. And, by the layout, a plain brown wrapper that had contained canned D. The five of them had chewed it out of existence, and even now, as he looked against his will, he saw a thin trickle of shiny brown syrup emerge from each of their slack, will-less mouths. Across from him, Franshine stirred, opened her eyes, moaned. She focused on him, then wearily sighed.
They got to us. He said. We took too long.
She rose unsteadily, stumbled, and almost fell. At once he was up too, catching hold of her. You were right. We should have done it right away if we intended to.
But she let him hold her briefly. I like the preliminaries. Walking along the beach, showing you the swimsuit that is no swimsuit. She smiled a little. Sam said.
They'll be out for a few more minutes, I bet. Wide-eyed, Fran said, Yes, you're right. She skipped away from him, to the door. Tugging it open, she disappeared out into the hall.
In our compartment, she called back. Hurry! Pleased, he followed.
It was too amusing. He was convulsed with laughter. Ahead of him, the girl scampered up the ramp to her level of the hovel.
He gained on her, caught hold of her as they reached her compartment. Together they tumbled in, rolled giggling and struggling across the hard metal floor to bump against the far wall. We won after all, he thought, as he deftly unhooked her bra, began to unbutton her shirt, unzipped her skirt, and removed her laceless, slipper-like shoes in one swift operation. He was busy everywhere, and Fran sighed, this time not wearily.
I better lock the door. He rose, hurried to the door, and shut it, fastening it securely. Fran, meanwhile, struggled out of her undone clothes. Come back, she urged. Don't just watch.
She piled them in a hasty heap, shoes on top like two paperweights. He descended back to her side and her swift, clever fingers began on him. Dark eyes alit, she worked away to his delight, right here in their dreary abode on Mars. And yet, they had still managed it in the old way, the soul way, through the drug brought in by the furtive pushers. Can be had made this possible.
They continued to require it. In no way were they free. As Fran's knees clasped his bare sides, he thought, and in no way do we want to be. In fact, just the opposite.
As his hand traveled down her flat, quaking stomach, he thought, we could even use a little more. At the reception desk at James Riddle Veterans Hospital at Base 3 on Ganymede, Leo Bolero tipped his expensive, hand-fashioned, wub-fur derby to the girl in her starched white uniform and said, I'm here to see a patient, a Mr. Eldon Trent. I'm sorry, sir, the girl began, but he cut her off.
Tell him Leo Bolero is here. Got it? Leo Bolero.
And he saw past her hand to the register. He saw the number of Eldritch's room. As the girl turned to the switchboard, he strode in the direction of that number. The hell with waiting, he said to himself. I came millions of miles and I expect to see the man or the thing, whichever it is.
An armed UN soldier with a rifle halted him at the door. A very young man with clear, cold eyes like a girl's. Eyes that emphatically said no, even to him.
Okay, Leo grumbled. I get the picture. But if he knew who it was out here, he'd say, let me in.
Beside him, at his ear, startling him, a sharp female voice said, How did you find out my father was here, Mr. Bolero? He turned and saw a rather heavy-set woman in her mid-thirties. She regarded him intently, and he thought, this is Zoe Eldridge. I ought to know. She's on the society pages of the homeopapes enough.
A U.N. official approached. Miss Eldridge, if you'd like, we can evict Mr. Bolero from this building.
It's up to you. He smiled pleasantly at Leo, and all at once, Leo identified him. This was the chief of the U.N.'s legal division, Ned Lark's superior, Frank Santina.
Dark-eyed, alert, somatically vibrant, Santina looked quickly from Leo to Zoe Eldridge, waiting for a response. No, Zoe Eldridge said at last. At least not right now. Not until I find out how he found out Dad is here. He can't know, can you, Mr. Bolero?
Santina murmured, through one of his pre-fash precogs, probably. Isn't that so, Bolero? Presently, Leo reluctantly nodded. You see, Miss Eldridge, Santina explained, a man like Bolero can hire anything he wants, any form of talent. So we expected him.
He indicated the two uniformed armed guards at Palmer Eldridge's door. That's why we require both of them at all times, as I tried to explain. Isn't there any way I can do business with Eldridge? Leo demanded.
That's what I came here for. I've got nothing illegal in mind. I think all of you are nuts, or else you're trying to hide something.
Maybe you've got guilty consciences. He eyed them, but saw nothing. Is it really Palmer Eldridge in there? he asked.
I bet it isn't. Again he got no response. Neither of them rose to the jibe.
I'm tired, he said. It was a long, tight trip here. The hell with it. I'm going to go get something to eat, and then I'm going to find a hotel room and sleep for ten hours, and forget this.
Turning, he stalked off. Neither Santina nor Miss Eldridge tried to stop him. Disappointed, he continued on, feeling oppressive disgust. Obviously, he would have to reach Palmer Eldridge. through some medium agency.
Perhaps, he reflected, Felix Blau and his private police could gain entry here. It was worth a try. But once he became this depressed, nothing seemed to matter. Why not do as he had said?
Eat and then get some needed rest. Forget about reaching Eldridge for the time being. The hell with all of them, he said to himself as he left the hospital building and marched out onto the sidewalk to search for a cab. That d- daughter, he thought. Tough-looking, like a lesbian, with her hair cut short and no makeup.
He found a cab and rode airborne for a time while he pondered. Using the cab's vid system, he contacted Felix back on Earth. I'm glad you called, Felix Blau said, as soon as he made out who it was.
There's an organization that's come into existence in Boston under strange circumstances. It seems... to have sprung up overnight, completely intact, including... What's it doing? They're preparing to market something.
The machinery is there, including three ad satellites similar to your own. One on Mars, one on Io, one on Titan. The rumor we hear is that they're preparing to approach the market with a commodity directly competing with your own Perky Pat layouts.
It'll be called Connie Companion Doll. He smiled briefly. Isn't that cute?
Leo said, what about, you know, the additive? No information on that. Assuming there is one, it would be beyond the legal scope of merchandising operations, presumably. Is a min layout any use minus the additive?
Now, then, that would seem to answer that. Leo said, I called you to find out if you can get me in to see Palmer Eldridge. I've located him here at Base 3 on Ganymede.
You recall my report on Eldritch's importation of a lichen similar to that used in the manufacture of Can-D. Has it occurred to you that this new Boston outfit may have been set up by Eldritch? Although it would seem rather soon for that. However, he could have radioed ahead years ago to his daughter. I've got to see him, Leo said.
It's time. James Riddle Hospital, I assume. We thought he might be there. By the way, you ever heard of a man named Richard Matt?
Never. A rep from this new Boston outfit met with him and transacted some kind of business deal. This rep, Eichholz, what a mess, Leo said, and I can't even get to Eldridge. Santina is hanging around at the door along with that dyke daughter of Palmer's.
No one would get past. the two of them he decided. He gave Felix Blau the address of a hotel at Base 3, the one at which he had left his baggage and then rang off.
I bet he's right, he said to himself. Palmer Eldritch is this competitor. Just my luck.
I have to be in the particular line that Eldritch, on his way back from Prox, decides to enter. Why couldn't I be making rocket guidance systems and be only competing with GE in general dynamics? Now he really wondered about the lichen which Eldridge had brought with him. An improvement on candy, perhaps? Cheaper to produce?
Capable of creating translation of longer duration and intensity? Jeez! Mulling, here and now, a bizarre recollection came to him.
An organization emanating from the United Arab Republic trained assassins for hire. Fat chance they would have against Palmer Eldridge, a man like that, once he had made his mind up. And yet Rondinella Fugate's precognition remained.
In the future, he would be arraigned for the murder of Palmer Eldridge. Evidently, he would find a way despite the obstacles. He had with him a weapon so small, so intangible, that even the most thorough search couldn't disclose it.
Some time ago, a surgeon at Washington, D.C. had sewn it into his tongue. A self- guiding high-velocity poison dart modeled on Soviet-Russian lines, but vastly improved in that once it had reached its victim, it obliterated itself, leaving no remains. The poison, too, was original.
It did not curtail heart or respiratory action. In fact, it was not a poison but a filterable virus which multiplied in the victim's bloodstream, causing death within 48 hours. It was Carcinomatous, an importation from one of Uranus's moons, and still...
generally unknown. It had cost him a great deal. All he needed to do was stand within arm's length of his intended victim and manually squeeze the base of his tongue, protruding the same simultaneously in the victim's direction.
So if he could see Eldridge, and I had better arrange it, he realized, before this new Boston Corporation is in production, before it can function without Eldridge. Like any weed, it had to be caught early, or not at all. When he reached his hotel room, he placed a call to PP Layouts to see if any vital-type messages or events were awaiting his attention.
Yes, Miss Gleason said as soon as she recognized him. There's an urgent call from a Miss Impatience White, if that's her name. If I did get it right, here's the number.
It's on Mars. She held the slip to the vid screen. At first, Leo could not place any woman named White, and then he identified her and felt fright.
Why had she called? Thanks, he mumbled, and it once rang off. God, if the U.N. Legal Division had monitored the call, because Impey White, operating out of Mars, was a top pusher of Candi. With great reluctance, he called the number.
Small-faced and sharp-eyed, pretty in a short sort of way, Impey White obtained on the vid-screen. He had imagined her as much more brawny. She looked quite bantam-like, but fierce, though. Mr. Bolero, as soon as I say it, there's no other way, no channels. A method existed by which Connor Freeman, chief of the Venusian operation, could contact him.
Miss White could have worked through Freeman, her superior. I visited a hovel, Mr. Bolero, at the south of Mars this morning with a shipment. The hovelists declined.
On the grounds, they had spent all their skins for a new product, in the same class as what we sell. Choose E, she went on. And, Leo Bolero rang off, and sat shakily in silence, thinking.
I've got to not get rattled, he told himself. After all, I'm an evolved human variety. So this is it. This is that Boston firm's new product, derived from Eldritch's lichen. I have to assume that.
He's lying there on his hospital bed not a mile from me, giving the orders no doubt through Zoe, and there's not a fligging thing I can do. The operation is all set up and functioning. I'm already too late.
Even this thing in my tongue, he realized, it's futile now. But I'll think of something, he knew. I always do. This was not the end of PP Layouts, exactly. The only thing was, what could he do?
It eluded him, and this did not decrease his sweaty, nervous alarm. Come to me, artificially accelerated cortical development idea, he said in prayer. God, help me to overcome my enemies, the bastards.
Maybe if I make use of my pre-fash precogs, Ronnie Fugate and Barney. Maybe they can come up with something. Especially that old pro Barney.
He hasn't been brought in on this at all as yet. Once more he placed a vid call to PP Layouts back on Terra. This time he requested Barney Meyerson's department.
And then he remembered Barney's problem with the draft. His need of developing an inability to endure stress in order not to wind up in a hovel on Mars. Grimly. leo bolero thought i'll provide that proof for him the danger of being drafted is already over when the call came from leo bolero on ganymede barney myerson was alone in his office the conversation did not last long when he had hung up he glanced at his watch and marveled five minutes it had seemed a major interval in his life rising he touched the button of his intercom and said, don't let anyone in for a while.
Not even, especially not even, Miss Fugate. He walked to the window and stood gazing out at the hot, bright, empty street. Leo was dumping the entire problem in his lap. It was the first time he had seen his employer collapse.
Imagine, he thought. Leo Bolero baffled by the first competition that he had ever experienced. He very simply was not used to it. The new Boston Company's existence had totally, for the time being, disoriented him.
The man became the child. Eventually, Leo would snap out of it, but meanwhile, what can I get from this? Barney Myerson asked himself, and did not immediately see any answer.
I can help Leo, but exactly what can Leo do for me? That was a question more to his liking. In fact, He had to think of it that way.
Leo himself had taught him to over the years. His employer would not have wanted it any other way. For a time, he sat meditating, and then, as Leo had directed, he turned his attention to the future. And while he was at it, he poked once more into his own draft situation. He tried to see precisely how that would finally resolve itself.
But the topic of his being drafted was too small, too much an iota, to be recorded in the public annals of the great. He could scan no homeopape headlines, hear no newscasts. In Leo's case, however, it was something else again.
Because he previewed a number of pape-lead articles pertaining to Leo and Palmer Eldridge. Everything, of course, was blurred, and alternates presented themselves in a chaos of profusion. Leo would meet Eldritch.
Leo would not. And, at this he focused intently, Leo arraigned for the murder of Palmer Eldritch. Good Lord, what did that mean?
It meant, he discovered from closer scrutiny, just what it said. And if Leo were arrested, tried, and sentenced, it might mean the termination of PP Layouts as a salary-paying enterprise. Hence, The end of a career to which he had already sacrificed everything else in his life, his marriage, and the woman he, even now, loved. Obviously it was to his advantage, a necessity, in fact, to warn Leo. And yet, even this datum could be turned to advantage.
He phoned Leo back. I have your news. Good.
Leo beamed his florid, elongated, rind-topped face. fused with relief. Go ahead, Barney, Barney said. There will soon be a situation which you can exploit.
You can get in to see Palmer Eldridge, not there at the hospital, but elsewhere. He'll be removed from Ganymede by his own order. He added with caution, not wanting to give away too much of the data he had collected, there'll be a falling out between him and the UN. He's using them now while he's incapacitated to protect him. But when he's well...
Details, Leo said at once, cocking his big head alertly. There is something I'd like in exchange. For what? Leo's palpably evolved face clouded.
Barney said, In exchange for my telling you the exact date and locus at which you can successfully reach Palmer Eldridge. Grumbling Leo said, And what do you want, for Christ's sakes? He eyed Barney apprehensively. E-therapy had not brought tranquility.
One quarter of one percent of your gross of PP layouts, not including revenue from any other source, meaning the plantation network on Venus where Candi was obtained. Good food in heaven, Leo said, and breathed raggedly. There's more. What more? I mean, you'll be rich!
And I want a restructuring of your use of pre-fash consultants. Each will stay at his post, nominally handle the job he has now, but with this alteration. All their decisions will be referred to me for final review. I'll have the ultimate say-so on their determinations, so I no longer will represent any one region.
You can turn New York over to Ronnie as soon as... Power hungry, Leo said in a grating voice. Barney shrugged. Who cared what it was called?
It represented the culmination of his career. This was what counted. And they were all in it for this, Leo included. In fact, Leo first of all. Okay, Leo said, nodding.
You can ride herd on all the other prefash consultants. It doesn't mean anything to me. Now tell me how and when and where you can meet Palmer Eldridge in three days. One of his own ships, unmarked, will take him off Ganymede the day after tomorrow.
To his demand, on Luna. There he'll continue to recuperate, but no longer in UN territory. Frank Santina won't have any more authority in this matter, so you can forget about him.
On the 23rd, at his domain, Eldridge will meet Pape reporters and give them his version of what took place on his trip. He'll be in a good mood, at least so they'll report. Apparently healthy, glad to be back, recovering satisfactorily. He'll give a long story about, Just tell me how to get in.
There'll still be a security system by his own boys. Barney said, PP Layouts, get this, puts out a trade journal four times a year, the mind of Minning. It's such a small-scale operation, you probably don't even know it exists. You mean, I should go as a reporter from our house organ?
Leo stared at him. I can get entry to his domain on that- basis? He looked disgusted. Hell, I didn't have to pay you for such garbagey information.
It would have been announced in the next day or so. I mean, if paper reporters are going to be there, it must be made public. Barney shrugged.
He did not bother to answer. I guess you got me, Leo said. I was too eager. Well, he added philosophically, maybe you can tell me what he's going to give the paper reporters by way of an explanation. What did he find in the proc system?
Does he mention the lichens he brought back? He does. He claims they're a benign form approved by the UN's Narcotics Control Bureau, which will replace, he hesitated, certain dangerous habit-forming derivatives now in wide use, and... and, Leo finished stonily, he's going to announce the formation of a company to peddle his narcotic-exempt commodity. Yes, Barney said.
Called Chew-Z, with the slogan, Be Chew-Z, Chew Chew-Z. Ah, for God's sake! It was all set up by InterSystem Radio Laser long ago, through his daughter, with the approval of Santina and Lark at the UN.
In fact, with Hepburn Gilbert's own approval. They see this as a way of putting a finish to the Can-D trade. There was silence. Okay, Leo said hoarsely after a time.
It seems a shame you couldn't have previewed this a couple of years ago, but hell, you're an employee and no one told you to. Barney shrugged. Grim-faced, Leo Bolero rang off. So that's that, Barney said to himself.
I violated rule one of career-oriented functioning. Never tell your superior something he doesn't want to hear. I wonder what the consequences of that will be. The vid phone all at once came back on.
Once again, Leo Bolero's clouded features formed. Listen, Barney, I just had a thought. This is going to make you sore, so get set.
I'm set. He prepared himself. I forgot, and I shouldn't have, that I previously talked to Miss Fugate, and she knows about certain events in the future pertaining to myself and Palmer Eldridge.
Events which, in any case, if she were to get disturbed, and having you ride hurt on her would make her disturbed, she might fly into a fit and do us harm. In fact, I got to thinking that potentially all my pre-fash consultants could come across this information, so the idea of you supervising all of them, the events, Barney interrupted, have to do with your arraignment for the first-degree murder of Palmer Eldridge, correct? Leo grunted. wheezed and stared morosely at him. At last, reluctantly, he nodded.
I'm not going to let you pull out of the agreement you just now made with me, Barney said. You made me certain promises, and I expect you to... But, Leo bleated, that fool girl, she's erratic. She'll run to the UN cops.
Barney, she's got me. So have I, he pointed out quietly. Yeah, but I've known you for years, Leo appeared to be thinking rapidly, appraising the situation with what he enjoyed calling his next stage in the Homo sapiens-type evolved knowledge powers, or some such thing. You're a pal! You wouldn't do that, which she'd do.
And anyhow, I can still offer you the percentage of the gross you asked for, okay? He eyed Barney anxiously, but with formidable determination. He had made up his mind. Can we finalize on that, then? We already finalized.
But damn it, like I said, I forgot about... If you don't come through, Barney said, I'll quit and go somewhere else with my ability. He had worked too many years to turn back at this point. You? Leo said unbelievingly.
I mean, you're not just talking about going to the UN police. You're talking about switching sides and going over to Palmer Eldridge. Barney said nothing.
You darn snink, Leo said. So this is what trying to stay afloat in times like this has done to us. Listen, I'm not so sure Palmer would accept you.
Probably he's got his pre-fash people already set up. And if he does, he knows the news already about my... He broke off. Yeah, I'll take the chance.
I think you have that... Greek sin. What did they call it? Hubris?
Pride. Like Satan had. Reaching too far. Go ahead and reach, Barney.
In fact, do anything you want. It doesn't matter to me. And lots of luck, fella.
Keep me posted on how you make out. And the next time you feel inclined to blackmail somebody, Barney cut the connection. The screen became a formless gray. Gray, he thought. Like the world inside me and around me.
Like reality. He rose and walked stiffly back and forth, hands in his trouser pockets. My best bet, he decided at this point, God forbid, is to join with Ronnie Fugate, because she's the one Leo was scared of, and for good reason.
There must be a whole galaxy of things she'd do that I wouldn't, and Leo knows it. Receding himself, he had Ronnie paged, brought at last into his office. Hi, she said brightly, colorful in her Peking-style silk dress sans bra. What's up?
I tried to reach you a minute ago, but... You just never, he said, never have on all your clothes. Shut the door. She shut the door. However, he said, to give you your due, you were very good in bed last night.
Thank you. Her youthful, clear face glowed. Barney said, Do you foresee clearly that our employer will murder Palmer Eldridge?
Or is there doubt? Swallowing, she ducked her head and murmured, You just reek with talent. She seated herself and crossed her legs, which were, he noticed, bare.
Of course there's doubt. First of all, I think it's moronic of Mr. Bolero, because of course it means the end of his career. The papes don't, will not, know his motives for it, so I can't guess. It must be something enormous and dreadful, don't you think?
The end of his career, Barney said, and also yours and mine. No, Ronnie said. I don't think so, dear. Let's consider a moment.
Mr. Palmer Eldridge is going to replace him in the minfield. Isn't that Mr. Bolero's probable motive? And doesn't that tell us something about the economic reality to come? Even with Mr. Eldridge dead, it would appear that his organization will. So we go over to Eldridge, just like that.
Screwing up her face in concentration, Ronnie said laboredly, No, I don't quite mean that, but we must be wary of losing with Mr. Bolero. We don't want to find ourselves dragged down with him. I have years ahead of me, and to some lesser extent, so do you.
Thanks, he said acidly. What we must do now is to plan carefully. And if precogs can't plan for the future, I've provided Leo with info that'll lead to a meeting between him and Eldritch.
Had it occurred to you that the two of them might form a syndicate together? He eyed her intently. I see nothing like that ahead.
No pape article to that effect. God, he said with scorn, it's not going to get into the papes. Oh, Jason, she nodded. That's so, I guess.
And if that happened, he said, we'd be nowhere once we left Leo and marched over to Eldritch. He'd have us back and on his own terms. We'd be better off getting out of the prefash business entirely.
That was obvious to him, and he saw by the expression on Ronnie Fugate's face that it was obvious to her, too. If we approach Palmer Eldridge... If. We've got to.
Barney said. No, we don't. We can stumble along like we are. As employees of Leo Bolero, whether he sinks or rises, or even completely disappears, he thought to himself. I'll tell you what else we can do.
We can approach all the other pre-fash consultants that work for PP Layouts and form a syndicate of our own. It was an idea he had toyed with for years. A guild.
So to speak, with a monopoly. Then we can dictate terms to both Leo and Eldritch. Except, Ronnie said, that Eldritch has pre-fash consultants of his own, evidently. She smiled at him. You have no clear conception of what to do, have you, Barney?
I can see that. What a shame. And you've worked so many years.
She shook her head sadly. I can see... said, while Leo was hesitant at the idea of crossing you. Because I tell the truth? She raised her eyebrows.
Yes, perhaps so. Everybody's afraid of the truth. You, for instance. You don't like to face the fact that you said no to that poor pot salesman just to get back at the woman who...
Shut up! He said savagely. You know where that pot salesman probably is right now?
Signed up... by Palmer Eldridge. You did him and your ex-wife a favor. Whereas, if you'd said yes, you'd have chained him to a declining company, cut both of them out of their chance to...
She broke off. I'm making you feel bad. Gesturing, he said, this is just not relevant to what I called you in here for.
That's right, she nodded. You called me in here so we could work out a way of betraying Leo Bolero together. Baffled, he said, listen.
But it's so. You can't handle it alone. You need me. I haven't said no.
Keep calm. However, I don't think this is the place or the time to discuss it. Let's wait until we're home at the Conapt, okay? She gave him, then, a brilliant smile, one of absolute warmth.
Okay, he agreed. She was right. Wouldn't it be sad, Ronnie said, if this office of yours were bugged? Perhaps Mr. Bolero is going to get a tape of everything we've said just now.
The smile continued, even grew. It dazzled him. The girl was afraid of no one and nothing on Earth or in the whole Sol system, he realized. He wished he felt the same way. Because there was one problem that haunted him, one he had not discussed with either Leo or her, although it was certainly bothering Leo, too, and should, if she were as rational as she seemed, be bothering her.
It had yet to be established that what had come back from Prox, the person or thing that had crashed on Pluto, was really Palmer Eldritch. 5. Set up financially by the contract with the Choose E! people, Richard Nat placed a call to one of Dr. Willie Denkmal's e-therapy clinics in the Germanys.
He picked the central one in Munich and began making arrangements for both himself and Emily. I'm up with the greats, he said to himself as he waited with Emily in the swanky, gnaw-hide decorated lounge of the clinic. Dr. Denkmal, as was his custom, proposed to interview them initially personally.
Although, of course, the therapy itself would be carried out by members of his staff. It makes me nervous, Emily whispered. She held a magazine on her lap but was unable to read.
So unnatural. Hell, Nat said vigorously. That's what it's not. It's an acceleration of the natural evolutionary process that's going on all the time anyway. Only usually it's so slow we don't perceive it.
I mean, look at our ancestors in caves. They were covered with body hair, and they had no chins in a very limited frontal area, brain-wise, and they had huge fused molars in order to chew uncooked seeds. Okay, Emily said, nodding.
The farther away we can get from them, the better. Anyhow, they evolved to meet the Ice Age. We have to evolve to meet the Fire Age, just the opposite. So we need that chitinous-type skin, that rind and the altered metabolism that lets us sleep in midday, and also the improved ventilation and the... In the inner office, Dr. Denkmal, a small, round style of middle-class German with white hair and an Albert Schweitzer mustache, emerged.
With him came another man, and Richard Knatt saw for the first time close up the effects of e-therapy. And it was not like seeing pics on the society pages of the homeopape, not at all. The man's head reminded Knatt of a photograph he had once seen. seen in a textbook.
The photo had been labeled hydrocephalic, the same enlargement above the brow line. It was clearly dome-like and oddly fragile-looking, and he saw at once why these well-to-do persons who had evolved were popularly called bubbleheads. Looks about to burst, he thought, impressed. And the massive rind.
Hair had given way to the darker, more uniform pattern of tightness. shell. Bubblehead?
More like a coconut. Mr. Hnatt, Dr. Denkmal said to Richard Hnatt, pausing. And Frau Hnatt, too. I'll be with you in a moment.
He turned back to the man beside him. It's just chance that we were able to squeeze you in today, Mr. Bolero, on such short notice. Anyhow, you haven't lost a bit of ground.
In fact, you've gained. However... Mr. Bolero was gazing at Richard Natt. I've heard your name before. Oh, yes, Felix Blau mentioned you.
His supremely intelligent eyes became dark, and he said, Did you recently sign a contract with a Boston firm called The Elongated Face, distorted as if by a permanent optically impaired mirror, twisted, choosy manufacturers? Nuts to you, Nat stammered. Your pre-fash consultant turned us down. Leo Bolero eyed him, then with a shrug turned back to Dr. Denkmal. I'll see you in two weeks.
Two, but, Denkmal gestured protestingly, I can't make it next week. I'll be off Terra again. Again, Bolero eyed Richard and Emily Nat lingeringly, then strode off.
Watching him go, Dr. Denkmal said, Very evolved, that man, both physically and spiritually. He turned to the gnats. Welcome to Eisenwald Clinic, he beamed.
Thank you, Emily said nervously. Does it hurt our therapy? Dr. Denkmal pittered with amusement. Not in the slightest, although it may shock in the figurative sense at first.
As you experience the growth of your cortex area, you'll have many new and exciting concepts occur to you, especially of a religious nature. Oh, if only Luther and Erasmus were alive today, their controversies could be solved so easily now, by means of e-therapy. Both would see the truth, as zum Beispiel regard transubstantiation, you know, the Blut und... He interrupted himself with a cough. In English, blood and wafer, you know, in the mass, is very much like the takers of candy.
Have you noticed that affinity? But come on, we begin. He slapped Richard Natt on the back and led the two of them into his inner office, eyeing Emily with what seemed to Richard to be a rather unspiritual, covetous look. They faced a gigantic chamber of scientific gadgets and two Dr. Frankenstein tables.
Complete with arm and leg brackets. At the sight, Emily moaned and shrank back. Nothing to fear, Frau Knatt.
Like electroconvulsive shock causes certain musculature reactions, reflex, you know? Denkmal giggled. Now you must, uh, you know, take off your clothes. Each of you in private, of course. Then Don, Smocks, and Auskommen, understand?
A nurse will assist you. We have your medical charts from North America already. We know your histories.
Both quite healthy, virile, good North Americanisher people. He led Richard Natt to a side room secluded by a curtain. There he left him off and returned to Emily. As he entered the side room, Richard heard Dr. Dankmal talking to Emily in a soothing but commanding tone.
The combination was a neat bit of business, and Natt... felt both envious and suspicious, and then at last, glum. It was not quite as he had Richard it. Not quite big-time enough to suit him. However, Leo Bolero had emerged from this room, so that proved it was authentic big-time.
Bolero would never have settled for less. Heartened, he began to undress. Somewhere out of sight, Emily squeaked.
He redressed and left the side room, boiling with concern. However, he found Dankmal at a desk, reading Emily's medical chart. She was off, he realized, with a female nurse, so everything was all right.
Criminy, he thought, I certainly am edgy. Once more entering the side room, he resumed undressing. His hands, he found, were shaking.
Presently, he lay strapped to one of the twin tables, Emily in a similar state beside him. She, too, seemed frightened. She was very pale and quiet. Your glance!
Dr. Dankmal explained, jovially rubbing his hands together and wantonly eyeing Emily, will be stimulated by this, especially crazy's gland, which controls rate of evolution. Nicht wahr? Yes, you know that. Every schoolchild knows that.
It's taught now what we've discovered here. Today what you will notice is no growth of chitinous shell or brain shield or loss of fingernails and toenails. You didn't know that, I bet.
But only a... slight but very, very important change in the frontal lobe. It will smart.
That is a pun, you know. It smarts, and you become a smart. Again he giggled.
Richard Nat felt miserable. He waited like some hog-tied animal for whatever they had in store for him. What a way to make business contacts, he said ruefully to himself and shut his eyes. A male attendant materialized and stood by him.
looking blonde, Nordic, and without intelligence. We play soothing music, Dr. Denkmal said, pressing a button. Multiphonic sound from every corner of the room filtered out, an insipid orchestral version of some popular Italian opera, Puccini or Verdi.
Nat did not know. Now hurrah, Herr Nat, Denkmal bent down beside him, suddenly serious. I want you to understand, every now and then...
This therapy, what do you say, blasts back, backfires, Nat said gratingly. He had been expecting this, but mostly we have successes. Here, Herr Nat, is what the backfires consist of, I am afraid.
Instead of evoluting, the crazy gland is very stimulated to regress. Is that correct in English? Yes, Nat muttered. Regress how far? Just a trifle, but it could be unpleasant.
He would catch it quickly, of course, and cease therapy. And generally that stops the regression, but not always. Sometimes once a crazy gland has been stimulated to, he gestured, it keeps on. I should tell you this in case you might have scruples, right?
I'll take the chance, Richard Nat said. I guess. Everyone else does, don't they?
Okay, go ahead. He squirmed, saw Emily, even paler now, almost imperceptibly nodding. Her eyes were glassy.
What'll probably happen, he thought fatalistically, is that one of us will evolve, probably Emily, and the other, me, will devolve back to synanthropus, back to fused molars, tiny brain, bent legs, and cannibalistic tendencies. I'll have a hell of a time closing sales that way. Dr. Denkmal clamped the switch shut, whistling along with the opera happily to himself.
The Nat's e-therapy had begun. He seemed to feel a loss of weight, nothing more, at least not at first. And then his head ached as if wrapped by a hammer. With the ache came almost instantly a new and acute comprehension. It was a dreadful risk he and Emily were taking, and it wasn't fair to her to subject her to this just to further sales.
Obviously, she didn't want this. Suppose she evolved back just enough to lose her ceramic talent, and they both would be ruined. His career hung on seeing Emily remain one of the planet's top ceramists.
Stop, he said aloud, but the sound did not seem to emerge. He did not hear it, although His vocal apparatus seemed to function. He felt the words in his throat. And then it came to him.
He was evolving. It was functioning. His insight was due to the change in his brain metabolism. Assuming Emily was all right, then everything was all right.
He perceived, too, that Dr. Willie Dankmal was a cheap little pseudo-quack, that this whole business preyed off the vanity of mortals, striving to become more than they were entitled to be, and in a purely earthly, transitory way. The hell with his sails, his contacts. What did that matter in comparison to the possibility of evolving the human brain to entire new orders of conception? For instance, below lay the tomb world, the immutable cause-and-effect world of the demonic.
At median extended the layer of the human. But at any instant a man could plunge, descend as if sinking, into the hell-layer beneath. Or he could ascend to the ethereal world above, which constituted the third of the trinary layers. Always, in his middle level of the human, a man risked the sinking.
And yet the possibility of ascent lay before him. Any aspect or sequence of reality could become either at any instant. Hell and heaven. Not after death, but now. Depression, all mental illness, was the sinking.
And the other, how was it achieved? Through empathy. Grasping another, not from outside, but from the inner.
For example, had he ever really looked at Emily's pots as anything more than merchandise for which a market existed? No. What I ought to have seen in them, he realized, is the artistic intention, the spirit she's revealing intrinsically, and that contract with choosy manufacturers, he realized. I signed without consulting her. How unethical can one become?
I chained her to a firm which she may not want as a minner of her products. We have no knowledge of the worth of their layouts. They may be shoddy, substandard.
But too late now. The road to the Hell Layer is paved with second-guessing. And they may be involved in the illegal manufacture of a translation drug.
That would explain the name, Chew-Z. It would correspond with candy. But the fact that they've selected that name openly suggests they have nothing illegal in mind.
With a lightning leap of intuition, it came to him. Someone had found a translation drug which satisfied the UN's narcotics agency. The agency had already passed on Chu-Z, would allow it on the open market.
So, for the first time, a translation drug would be available on thoroughly policed Terra, not in the remote, unpoliced colonies only. And this meant that Chu-Z's layouts, unlike Perky Pat, would be marketable on Terra, along with the drug. And as the weather worsened over the years, as the home planet became more of an alien environment, the layouts would sell faster. The market which Leo Bolero controlled was pitifully meager compared to what lay eventually, but not now, before Choozie manufacturers.
So he had signed a good contract after all. And no wonder Choozie had paid him so much. They were a big outfit with big plans. They had, obviously, unlimited capital backing them.
And where would they obtain unlimited capital? Nowhere on Terra. He intuited that, too. Probably from Palmer Eldridge, who had returned to the Sol system after having joined economically with the Proxers. It was they who were behind Chu-Zi.
So, for the chance to ruin Leo Bolero, the UN was allowing a non-Sol race to begin operations in the system. It was a bad, perhaps even terminal, exchange. The next he knew, Dr. Dankmal was slapping him into wakefulness. How goes it? Dankmal demanded, peering at him.
Broad, all-inclusive preoccupations? Yes, he said, and managed to sit up. He was unstrapped.
Then we have nothing to fear, Dr. Dankmal said. and beamed, his white mustache twitching like antennae. Now we will consult with Frau Hanat. A female attendant was already unstrapping her.
Emily sat up groggily and yawned. Dr. Denkmal looked nervous. How do you feel, Frau?
he inquired. Fine, Emily murmured. I had all sorts of pot ideas, one after another.
She glanced timidly at first him and then at Richard. Does that mean anything? Paper, Dr. Denkmal said, producing a tablet. Pen.
He extended them to Emily. Put down your ideas, Frau. Tremblingly, Emily sketched her pot ideas.
She seemed to have difficulty controlling the pen, Nat noticed, but presumably that would pass. Fine, Dr. Denkmall said when she had finished. He showed the sketches to Richard Nat.
Highly organized cephalic activity. Superior inventiveness, right? The pot sketched.
sketches were certainly good, even brilliant, and yet Nat felt there was something wrong, something about the sketches. But it was not until they had left the clinic, were standing together under the anti-thermal curtain outside the building, waiting for their jet express cab to land, that he realized what it was. The ideas were good, but Emily had done them already. Years ago, When she had designed her first professionally adequate pots, she had shown him sketches of them and then the pots themselves, even before the two of them were married. Didn't she remember this?
Obviously not. He wondered why she didn't remember and what it meant. It made him deeply uneasy.
However, he had been continually uneasy since receiving the first e-therapy treatment. First about the state of mankind and the Sol system in general, and now about his wife. Maybe it's merely a sign of what Denkmal calls highly organized cephalic activity, he thought to himself.
Brain metabolism stimulation. Or maybe not. Arriving on Luna with his official press card from P.P. Layout's house journal clutched, Leo Bolero found himself... squeezed in with a gaggle of homeopape reporters on their way by surface tractor across the ashy face of the moon to Palmer Eldritch's domain.
Your ident, pape, sir? An armed guard, but not wearing the colors of the UN, yapped at him as he prepared to exit into the parking area of the domain. Leo Bolero was thereupon wedged in the doorway of the tractor, while behind him the legitimate homeopape reporters surged and clamored restively, wanting to get out.
Mr. Bolero, the guard said leisurely and returned the press card. Mr. Eldridge is expecting you. Come this way. He was immediately replaced by another guard, who began checking the ID of the reporters one by one.
Nervous, Leo Bolero accompanied the first guard through an air-filled, pressurized, and comfortably heated tube to the domain proper. Ahead of him, blocking the tube, appeared another uniformed guard from Palmer Eldritch's staff. He raised his arm and pointed something small and shiny at Leo Bolero. Hey! Leo protested feebly, freezing in his tracks.
He spun, ducked his head, and then stumbled a few steps back the way he had come. The beam, of a variety he knew nothing about, touched... him and he pitched forward, trying to break his fall by throwing his arms out.
The next he knew, he was once more conscious and swaddled absurdly to a chair in a barren room. His head rang and he looked blearily around, but saw only a small table in the center of the room, on which an electronic contraption rested. Let me out of here, he said. At once the electronic contraption said, Good morning, Mr. Bolero.
I am Palmer Eldridge. You wanted to see me, I understand. This is cruel conduct, Bolero said, having me put to sleep and then tying me up like this. Have a cigar. The electronic contraption sprouted an extension which carried in its grasp a long green cigar.
The end of the cigar puffed into flame, and then the elongated pseudopodium presented it to Leo Bolero. I brought ten boxes of these back from Prox, but only one box survived the crash. It's not tobacco. It's superior to tobacco. What is it, Leo?
What did you want? Leo Bolero said. Are you in that thing there, Eldritch?
Or are you somewhere else, speaking through it? Be content, the voice from the metal construct resting on the table said. It continued to extend the lighted cigar, then withdrew it, stubbed it out, and dropped the remains from sight within itself.
Do you care to see color slides of my visit to the proc system? You're kidding! No, Palmer Eldridge said.
They'll give you some idea of what I was up against there. They're 3D time-lapse slides. Very good. No, thanks, Eldridge said.
We found that dart embedded in your tongue. It's been removed, but you may have something more, or so we suspect. You're giving me a lot of credit, Leo said. More than I ought to get.
In four years on Prox, I learned a lot. Six years in transit, four in residence. The Proxers are going to invade Earth.
You're putting me on, Leo said. Eldridge said, I can understand your reaction. The UN, in particular Hepburn-Gilbert, reacted the same way.
But it's true, not in the conventional sense, of course, but in a deeper, coarser manner that I don't quite get. Even though I was among them for so long, it may be involved with Earth's heating up, for all I know. Or there may be worse to come.
Let's talk about that lichen you brought back. I obtained that illegally. The proxers didn't know I took any of it. They use it themselves in religious orgies, as our Indians made use of mescal and peyote.
Is that what you wanted to see me about? Sure. You're getting into my business. I know you've already set up a corporation, haven't you? Nuts to this business about proxers invading our system.
It's you I'm sore about, what you're doing. Can't you find some other field to go into besides min layouts? The room blew up in his face.
White light descended, blanketing him, and he shut his eyes. Jeez, he thought. Anyhow, I don't believe that about the proxers. He's just trying to turn our attention away from what he's up to.
I mean, it's strategy. He opened his eyes and found himself sitting on a grassy bank. Beside him, a small girl played with a yo-yo.
That toy, Leo Bolero said, is popular in the proc system. His arms and legs, he discovered, were untied. He stood up stiffly and moved his limbs.
What's your name? he asked. The little girl said, Monica. The proxers, Leo said, the humanoid types anyhow, wear wigs and have false teeth.
He took hold of the bulk of the child's luminous blonde hair and pulled. Ouch, the girl said. You're a bad man. He let go and she retreated, still playing with her yo-yo and glaring at him defiantly.
Sorry, he murmured. Her hair was real. Perhaps he was not in the prox system.
Anyhow, wherever he was, Palmer Eldritch was trying to tell him something. Are you planning to invade Earth? he asked the child. I mean, you don't look as if you are.
Could Eldritch have gotten it wrong, he wondered. Misunderstood the proxers? After all, to his knowledge, Palmer hadn't evolved, didn't possess the powerful expanded comprehension which came with e-therapy.
My yo-yo, the child said, is magic. I can do anything I want with it. What'll I do? You tell me.
You look like a kindly man. Take me to your leader, Leo said. An old joke, you wouldn't understand. It went out a century ago. He looked around him and saw no signs of habitation, only the grassy plain.
Too cool for Earth, he realized. Above... The blue sky. Good air, he thought.
Dense. Do you feel sorry for me, he asked, because Palmer Eldridge is horning into my business, and if he does, I'll probably be ruined. I'm going to have to make some kind of a deal with him.
It now looks like killing him is out, he said to himself morosely. But, he said, I can't figure out any deal he'll take. He seems to hold all the cards.
Look, for instance, how he's got me here, and I don't even know where this is. Not that it matters, he realized, because... Wherever it is, it's a place Eldritch controls. Cards, the child said.
I have a deck of cards in my suitcase. He saw no suitcase. Where? Kneeling, the girl touched the grass here and there.
All at once, a section slid smoothly back. The girl reached into the cavity and brought out a suitcase. I keep it hidden, she explained, from the sponsors.
What's that mean, that sponsors? Well, to be here you need a sponsor. All of us have them.
I guess they pay for everything. Pay until we're well and then we can go home. If we have homes.
She seated herself by the suitcase and opened it, or at least tried to. The lock did not respond. Darn, she said. This is the wrong one.
This is Dr. Smile. A psychiatrist? Leo asked. alertly. From one of those big con apps?
Is it working? Turn it on. Obligingly, the girl turned the psychiatrist on.
Hello, Monica, the suitcase said tinnily. Hello to you too, Mr. Boulareau. It pronounced his name wrong, getting the stress on the final syllable. What are you doing here, sir?
You're much too old to be here, tee-hee. Or are you regressed? Due to malappropriate so-called e-therapy, er, quick, it whirred in agitation. Therapy in Munich, it's finished.
I feel fine, Leo assured it. Look, Smile, who do you know that I know that could get me out of here? Name someone, anyone. I can't stay here anymore, get it? I know a Mr. Byerson, Dr. Smile said.
In fact, I'm with him right now, via portable extension, of course, right in his office. There's nobody I know named Byerson, Leo said. What is this place? Obviously it's a rest camp of some sort for sick kids or kids with no money or some damn thing. I thought this was maybe in the proc system, but if you're here, obviously it isn't.
Byerson. It came to him then. Hal, you mean Myerson. Barney, back at PP Layouts.
Yes, that's so, Dr. Smile said. Contact him, Leo said. Tell him to get in touch with Felix Blau right away, that Tri-Planet Police Agency or whatever they call themselves. Have him have Blau do research, find out where exactly I am, and then send a ship here, got it? All right, Dr. Smile said.
I'll address Mr. Meyerson right away. He's conferring with Miss Fugate, his assistant, who is also his mistress. And who today is wearing... Hmm...
They're talking about you this very minute. But of course, I can't report what they're saying, seal of the medical profession, you realize. She is wearing... Okay, who cares? Leo said irritably.
You'll excuse me a moment, the suitcase said, while I sign off. It sounded huffy. And then there was silence.
I have bad news for you, the child said. What is it? I was kidding.
That's not really Dr. Smile. It's just pretend, to keep us from loneliness. It's alive, but it's not connected with anything outside itself.
It's what they call being on intrinsic. He knew what that meant. The unit was self-contained. But then how could it have known about Barney and Miss Fugate, even down to details about their personal life? Even as to what she had on?
The child was not telling the truth, obviously. Who are you? he demanded. Monica what?
I want to know your full name. Something about her was familiar. I'm back, the suitcase announced suddenly. Well, Mr. Boulareau, again the faulty pronunciation.
I've discussed your dilemma with Mr. Meyerson and he will contact Felix Blau as you requested. Mr. Meyerson thinks he recalls reading in a homeopape once about a UN camp, much as you are experiencing. Somewhere in the Saturn region, four retarded children. Perhaps, hell, Leo said, this girl isn't retarded. If anything, she was precocious.
It did not make sense. But what did make sense was the realization that Palmer Eldritch wanted something out of him. This was not merely a matter of edifying him. It was a question of intimidation.
On the horizon, a shape appeared, immense and gray. bloating as it rushed at terrific speed toward them. It had ugly scabs.
He spiked whiskers. That's a rat, Monica said calmly. Leo said, that big?
No place in the Sol system, on none of the moons or planets, did such an enormous feral creature exist. What will it do to us? he asked, wondering why she wasn't afraid.
Oh, Monica said, I suppose it'll kill us. And that doesn't frighten you? He heard his own voice rise in a shriek.
I mean, you want to die like that? And right now? Eaten by a rat the size of... He grabbed the girl with one hand, picked up Dr. Smile, the suitcase, and the other, and began lumbering away from the rat.
The rat reached them, passed on by, and was gone. Its shape dwindled until at last it disappeared. The girl snickered.
It scared you. I knew it wouldn't see us. They can't.
They're blind to us here. They are? He knew then where he was.
Felix Blau wouldn't find him. Nobody would, even if they looked forever. Eldritch had given him an intravenous injection of a translating drug, no doubt choosy. This place was a non-existent world, analogous to the irreal Earth to which the translated colonists went when they chewed his own product, candy. And the rat, unlike everything else, was genuine.
Unlike themselves, he and his... girl, they were not real either. At least, not here.
Somewhere, their empty, silent bodies lay like sacks, discarded by the cerebral contents for the time being. No doubt their bodies were at Palmer Eldridge's lunar domain. You're Zoe, he said, aren't you?
This is the way you want to be, a little girl child again, about eight, right? With long blonde hair. And even, he realized, with a different name.
End of side two. To continue, change side selector switch and turn the cassette over.