“No,” Eric admitted. That wouldn’t solve their problems.
“So I use a robant substitute, speaking lines that Don Festenburg programmed. The point is: we’ll go on. And that’s what matters. So learn to live with it, doctor; grow up.” His face was cold now, unyielding.
“Okay,” Eric said after a moment.
Molinari tapped him on the shoulder and said in a low voice, “The ’Starmen don’t know about this simulacrum and Don Festenburg’s work; I don’t want them to find out, doctor, because I’d like to impress them, too. You understand? In fact I’m sending a print of this video tape to Lilistar; it’s already on the way. You want to know the truth, doctor? Frankly, I’m more interested in impressing them than I am our own population. How does that strike you? Tell me honestly?”
“It strikes me,” Eric said, “as an acute commentary on our plight.”
The Mole regarded him somberly. “Perhaps so. But what you don’t realize is that this is nothing; if you had any idea of—”
“Don’t tell me any more. Not right now.”
On the screen the imitation of Gino Molinari boomed and expostulated, gesticulated to the unseen TV audience.
“Sure, sure,” Molinari agreed, mollified. “Sorry to have bothered you with my troubles in the first place.” Downcast, his face more lined and weary than before, he turned his attention back to the screen, to the healthy, vigorous, completely synthetic image of his earlier self.
In the kitchen of her conapt Kathy Sweetscent lifted a small paring knife with difficulty, attempted to cut a purple onion, but found to her incredulity that she had somehow slashed her finger; she stood mutely holding the knife, watching the crimson drops slide from her finger to merge with the water sprinkled across her wrist. She would no longer handle even the most commonplace object. The damn drug! she thought with embittered fury. Every minute it’s making me more powerless. Now everything defeats me. So how the hell am I going to fix dinner?
Standing behind her, Jonas Ackerman said with concern, “Something has to be done for you, Kathy.” He watched her as she went to the bathroom for a Band-Aid. “Now you’re spilling the Band-Aids everywhere; you can’t even handle that.” He complained, “If you’d tell me what it is, what—”
“Put the Band-Aid on for me, will you?” She stood silently as Jonas wrapped her cut finger. “It is JJ-180,” she blurted suddenly, without premeditation. “I’m on it, Jonas. The ’Starmen did it. Please help me, get me off it. Okay?”
Shaken, Jonas said, “I—don’t know exactly what I can do, because it’s such a new drug. Of course we’ll get in touch with our subsidiary right away. And the whole company will back you up, including Virgil.”
“Go talk to Virgil right now.”
“Now? Your time sense, Kathy; you feel this urgency because of the drug. I can see him tomorrow.”
“Damn it, I’m not going to die because of this drug. So you better see him tonight, Jonas; do you understand?”
After a pause Jonas said, “I’ll call him.”
“The vidlines are tapped. By the ’Starmen.”
“That’s a paranoid idea. From the drug.”
“I’m afraid of them.” She was trembling. “They can do anything. You go and see Virgil face to face, Jonas; calling isn’t enough. Or don’t you care what happens to me?”
“Of course I care! Okay, I’ll go and see the old man. But will you be all right alone?”
“Yes,” Kathy said. “I’ll just sit in the living room and do nothing. I’ll just wait for you to come back with some kind of help. What could happen to me if I don’t try to do anything, if I just sit there?”
“You might get yourself into a state of morbid agitation. You might be swamped with panic … start to run. If it’s true you’re on JJ-180—”
“It’s true!” she said loudly. “Do you think I’m kidding?”
“Okay,” Jonas said, giving in. He led her to the couch in the living room, sat her down. “God, I hope you’ll be all right—I hope I’m not making a mistake.” He was sweating and pale, his face wizened with worry. “See you in about half an hour, Kathy. Christ, if something goes wrong, Eric’ll never forgive me and I won’t blame him.” The apartment door shut after him. He did not even say goodbye.
She was alone.
At once she went to the vidphone and dialed. “A cab.” She gave her address and hung up.
A moment later, her coat over her shoulders, she hurried from the building and out onto the nocturnal sidewalk.
When the autonomic cab had picked her up she instructed it by means of the card which Corning had given her.
If I can get more of the drug, she thought, my mind will clear and I can reason out what I have to do; as I am now I can’t think. Anything I decide now, in this state, would be spurious. I owe it to myself to restore the normal functioning—or rather the desired functioning—of my faculties; without that I can’t plan or survive and I’m doomed. I know, she thought fiercely, that the only way out for me would be suicide; it’s just a matter of a few hours at the most. And Jonas couldn’t help me in that short a time.
The only way I could have gotten rid of him, she realized, is the way I chose: by telling him of my addiction. Otherwise he would have hung around me forever and I never would have had a chance to get to Corning for more. I gained the opportunity I need, but now the Ackermans understand what’s wrong with me and they’ll try even harder to keep me from going to Cheyenne and joining Eric. Maybe I should go there tonight, not even return to my apartment. Just take off as soon as I have the capsules. Leave everything I own behind, abandoned.
How demented can you get? she asked herself. And it required only one exposure to JJ-180 to do this; what’ll I be like when I’ve taken it repeatedly … or even just twice?
The future, to her, was mercifully obscure. She frankly did not know.
“Your destination, miss.” The cab settled onto the rooftop landing field of a building. “That will be one dollar and twenty cents US plus a twenty-five-cent tip.”
“Screw you and the tip,” Kathy said, opening her purse; her hands shook and she could barely get out the money.
“Yes, miss,” the autonomic cab said obediently.
She paid and then stepped out. A dull guide-light showed her the descent. What a rundown building for ’Starmen to inhabit, she thought. It surely isn’t good enough for them; they must be pretending to be Terrans. The only consolation was a bitter one: the ’Starmen, like Terra, were losing the war, would ultimately be defeated. Relishing that thought, she increased her pace, felt more confidence; she did not simply hate the ’Starmen: she could, for a moment, despise them.
In this fortified frame of mind she reached the conapt held by the ’Starmen, rang the bell, and waited.
It was Corning himself who answered, she saw, behind him, other ’Starmen, evidently in conference. In camera, she said to herself; I’m disturbing them. Too bad; he said to come.
“Mrs. Sweetscent.” Corning turned to the people behind him. “Isn’t that a superb name? Come in, Kathy.” He held the door wide.
“Give it to me out here.” She remained in the hall. “I’m on my way to Cheyenne; you’ll be glad to hear that. So don’t waste my time.” She held out her hand.
An expression of pity—incredibly—passed over Corning’s face; he masterfully suppressed it. But she had seen it, and this, more than anything else that had happened, even the addiction itself or her suffering when the drug had worn off—nothing shocked her so much as Corning’s pity. If it could move a ’Starman … she cringed. Oh God, she thought; I really am in trouble. I must be on my way to death.
“Look,” she said reasonably. “My addiction may not last forever. I’ve found out that you lied; the drug comes from Terra, not from the enemy, and sooner or later our subsidiary will be able to free me. So I’m not afraid.” She waited while Corning went to get the drug; at least she presumed that this was what he had gone for. He certainly had vanished somewhere
.
One of the other ’Starmen, observing her leisurely, said, “You could float that drug around Lilistar for a decade and never find anyone unstable enough to succumb.”
“Right,” Kathy agreed. “That’s the difference between you and us; we look alike but inside you’re tough and we’re weak. Gosh, I envy you. How long is it going to take Mr. Corning?”
“He’ll be back in a moment,” the ’Starman said. To a companion he said, “She’s pretty.”
“Yes, pretty as an animal,” the other ’Starman answered. “So you like pretty animals? Is that why you were assigned to this?”
Corning returned. “Kathy, I’m giving you three caps. Don’t take more than one at a time. Otherwise its toxicity would probably be fatal to your heart action.”
“Okay.” She accepted the capsules. “Do you have a cup or glass of water so I can take one right now?”
He brought her a glass, stood watching sympathetically as she swallowed the capsule. “I’m doing this,” she explained, “to clear my mind so I can plan what to do. I’ve got friends helping me. But I will go to Cheyenne because a deal is a deal, even with you. Can you give me the name of someone there—you know, who can give me further supplies when I need them? If I need them, I mean.”
“We have no one in Cheyenne who can help you. I’m very much afraid you’ll have to travel back here when your three caps are gone.”
“Your infiltration of Cheyenne doesn’t consist of much, then.”
“I guess not.” Corning did not appear perturbed, however.
“Goodbye,” Kathy said, starting away from the door. “Look at you,” she said, addressing the group of ’Starmen within the apartment. “God but you’re detestable. So confident. What kind of victory is it to—” She broke off; what was the use? “Virgil Ackerman knows about me. I’ll bet he can do something; he’s not afraid of you, he’s too big a man.”
“All right,” Corning said, nodding. “You cherish that comforting delusion, Kathy. Meanwhile be sure you don’t tell anyone else, because if you do, then no more caps. You shouldn’t have told the Ackermans but I’ll let that pass; after all, you were dazed when the drug wore off—we expected that. You did it in a state of panic. Good luck, Kathy. And we’ll hear from you shortly.”
“Can’t you give her further instructions now?” a ’Starman said from behind Corning, sleepy-eyed and toadlike, drawling his question.
“She wouldn’t be able to retain anything more,” Corning said. “It’s asking a lot of her already; can’t you see how overtaxed she is?”
“Kiss her goodbye,” the ’Starman behind him suggested. He strolled forward. “Or if that doesn’t cheer her up—”
The apartment door shut in Kathy’s face.
She stood a moment and then started back down the hall, toward the ascent ramp. Dizzy, she thought; I’m beginning to become disoriented—I hope I can make it to a cab. Once I’m in the cab I’ll be okay. Jesus, she thought, they treated me badly; I should care but I really don’t. Not as long as I have these two remaining capsules of JJ-180. And can get more.
The capsules were like a contracted form of life itself and yet at the same time everything they contained was fabricated from absolute delusion. What a mess, she thought drably as she emerged on the roof field and glanced about for the red, winking light of an autonomic cab. A——mess.
She had found a cab, was seated in it and on her way to Cheyenne, when she experienced the drug beginning to take effect.
Its initial manifestation was baffling. She wondered if perhaps a clue to its true action could be inferred from this; it seemed to her terribly important and she tried with every bit of mental energy she had to comprehend it. So simple and yet so meaningful.
The cut on her finger had disappeared.
She sat examining the spot, touching the smooth, perfect skin. No break. No scar. Her finger, exactly as before … as if time had been rolled back. The Band-Aid, too, was gone, and that seemed to clinch it, make it thoroughly comprehensible, even to her swiftly deteriorating faculties.
“Look at my hand,” she instructed the cab, holding her hand up. “Do you see any sign of an injury? Would you believe that I slashed myself badly, just half an hour ago?”
“No, miss,” the cab said as it passed out over the flat desert of Arizona, heading north toward Utah. “You appear uninjured.”
Now I understand what the drug does, she thought. Why it causes objects and people to become insubstantial. It’s not so magical, and it’s not merely hallucinogenic; my cut is really gone—this is no illusion. Will I remember this later on? Maybe, because of the drug, I’ll forget; there never will have been a cut, after a little while longer, as the action of the drug spreads out, engulfs more and more of me.
“Do you have a pencil?” she asked the cab.
“Here, miss.” From a slot in the seat-back ahead of her a tablet of paper with attached writing stylus appeared.
Carefully Kathy wrote: JJ-180 took me back to before I had severe cut on finger. “What day is this?” she asked the cab.
“May 18, miss.”
She tried to recall if that was correct, but now she felt muddled; was it already slipping away from her? Good thing she had written the note. Or had she written the note? On her lap the tablet lay with its stylus.
The note read: JJ-180 took me
And that was all; the remainder dwindled into mere labored convolutions without meaning.
And yet she knew that she had completed the sentence, whatever it had been; now she could not recall it. As if by reflex she examined her hand. But how was her hand involved? “Cab,” she said hurriedly, as she felt the balance of her personality ebbing away, “what did I ask you just a moment ago?”
“The date.”
“Before that.”
“You requested a writing implement and paper, miss.” “Anything before that?”
The cab seemed to hesitate. But perhaps that was her imagination. “No, miss; nothing before that.”
“Nothing about my hand?”
Now there was no doubt about it; the circuits of the cab did stall. At last it said creakily, “No, miss.”
“Thank you,” Kathy said, and sat back against the seat, rubbing her forehead and thinking, So it’s confused, too. Then this is not merely subjective; there’s been a genuine snarl in time, involving both me and my surroundings.
The cab said, as if in apology for its inability to assist her, “Since the trip will be several hours, miss, would you enjoy to watch TV? It, the screen, is placed directly before you; only touch the pedal.”
Reflexively she lit the screen with the tip of her toe; it came to life at once and Kathy found herself facing a familiar image, that of their leader, Gino Molinari, in the middle of a speech.
“Is that channel satisfactory?” the cab asked, still apologetic.
“Oh sure,” she said. “Anyhow when he gets up and rants it’s on all channels.” That was the law.
And yet here, too, in this familiar spectacle, something strange absorbed her; peering at the screen, she thought, He looks younger. The way I remember him when I was a child. Ebullient, full of animation and shouting excitement, his eyes alive with that old intensity: his original self that no one has forgotten, although long since gone. However, obviously it was not long since gone; she witnessed it now with her own eyes, and was more bewildered than ever.
Is JJ-180 doing this to me? she asked herself, and got no answer.
“You enjoy to watch Mr. Molinari?” the cab inquired.
“Yes,” Kathy said, “I enjoy to watch.”
“May I hazard,” the cab said, “that he will obtain the office for which he is running, that of UN Secretary?”
“You stupid autonomic robant machine,” Kathy said witheringly. “He’s been in office years now.” Running? she thought. Yes, the Mole had looked like this during his campaign, decades ago … perhaps that was what had confused the circuits of the cab. “I apologize,” she said. “Bu
t where the hell have you been? Parked in an autofac repair garage for twenty-two years?”
“No, miss. In active service. Your own wits, if I may say so, seem scrambled. Do you request medical assistance? We are at this moment over desert land but soon we will pass St. George, Utah.”
She felt violently irritable. “Of course I don’t need medical assistance; I’m healthy.” But the cab was right. The influence of the drug was upon her full force now. She felt sick and she shut her eyes, pressing her fingers against her forehead as if to push back the expanding zone of her psychological reality, her private, subjective self. I’m scared, she realized. I feel as if my womb is about to fall out; this time it’s hitting me much harder than before, it’s not the same, maybe because I’m alone instead of with a group. But I’ll just have to endure it. If I can.
“Miss,” the cab said suddenly, “would you repeat my destination? I have forgotten it.” Its circuits clicked in rapid succession as if it were in mechanical distress. “Assist me, please.”
“I don’t know where you’re going,” she said. “That’s your business; you figure it out. Just fly around, if you can’t remember.” What did she care where it went? What did it have to do with her?
“It began with a C,” the cab said hopefully.
“Chicago.”
“I feel otherwise. However, if you’re sure—” Its mechanism throbbed as it altered course.
You and I are both in this, Kathy realized. This drug-induced fugue. You made a mistake, Mr. Corning, to give me the drug without supervision. Corning? Who was Corning?
“I know where we were going,” she said aloud. “To Corning.”
“There is no such place,” the cab said flatly.
“There must be.” She felt panic. “Check your data again.”
“Honestly, there isn’t!”
“Then we’re lost,” Kathy said, and felt resigned. “God, this is awful. I have to be in Corning tonight, and there’s no such place; what’ll I do? Suggest something. I depend on you; please don’t leave me to founder like this—I feel as if I’m losing my mind.”
Now Wait for Last Year Page 11