“Thought you guys always did it on the wing,” Adam
said.
“If we’re not careful,” Gomi agreed.
“That’s bad,” Glory stated.
“Not as bad as upchucking in null-grav,” Gomi responded, “especially if you’ve been eating pizza. Grab a seat. Grab anybody’s seat.”
Glory and I lowered ourselves to nearby cushions.
“Gomi and I met over a million years ago,” Adam told us. “Gomi’s a messenger, as I said—for off-planet intelligences.”
“Freelance courier, actually,” the creature corrected. “The message doesn’t fly unless there’s something in it for me.”
“What constitutes the message?” Glory asked.
Gomi tapped the canister with one of his claws. “The medium, of course. I’m really good at paring things down to bare essentials.”
Glory moved nearer and peered into the container.
“Oh,” she said.
“Yes, I screw my brains out and then I’ve got it—intelligence in a tube. As in, ‘What’s in the can, man?’”
“What then?”
“In my case, it goes to the highest bidder. There’re lots Of XTs who’d love to explore and discover and meet interesting new people and interrogate them. Haven’t the time or the resources to manage it personally, though. So they have standing orders with those of my sort. One may just have an interest in the arts, or philosophy, or the sciences, or theology. Another may only be into the evolution of sea creatures. Another may just want to follow the development of a particular concept among quadrupeds. Someone else may be into cold-blooded thought, or the brains of those living in binary systems. These wish-lists are all posted along the ways. We may consult them after coming across something interesting, or we may go shopping after we learn of someone’s special needs.”
‘“Ways’?” Glory asked. “What ways?”
“Gomi’s is one of the few natural space-faring races,” Adam said. “They come equipped with the ability to negotiate the undersides of spacetime as we normally perceive it, making their ways from world to world entirely under their own power. They spread their wings like the sails on ancient sea vessels and let the symmetry pressures of the ways propel them.”
“They may be the universe’s stretch-marks,” Gomi said, “or a demonstration that at certain levels space can be eroded, or the game trails of underside beasts whose spoor writes its own rules where they pass—for sometimes we encounter unusual roadkill and hear strange barks and lows across the parsecs. My people are not great theoreticians in this area, since we already have all we need of it.”
“Clear sailing and a fair wind to Arcturus,” Adam said.
“Yo ho ho,” Gomi added.
“Life on the dancing waves.”
“Brainwaves.”
“Yes, about that,” Glory put in. “Why just the brains?”
“The parties interested in the development of intellect under various conditions are interested mainly in just that—intellect,” Gomi replied.
“So you just leave the bodies and take them the brains?” I said.
“Well, I get the best deals I can for the bodies whenever there’s an opportunity. But yes, mass is extremely important on trips of that sort, and my kind does seem to have a knack for ultra-highspeed neurosurgery.”
It clicked its claws once and took another drink. “We’ve gotten it down to a real art. Pretty much have to, for getting ahead in the world.”
“What’s special about that one?” I asked, nodding toward the canister.
“It contains the first complete map of the human collective unconscious,” Gomi replied. “Lucky find. Worth a great deal. I was going to run it off to old Yog, who has a strong interest in stuff like that, when I ran into Macavity here. He made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Do you know I’ve been to the depths, I’ve been to the heights, I’ve collected brains on worlds all over the place, and there’s half a universe I’d never seen?”
“No,” Adam said, “but if you’ll hum a few bars I’ll try to fake it.”
Gomi immediately broke into a raucous, chirping laughter; then, letting up, issued a high, piercing humming that hurt my ears. I almost thought at that time that I also detected a fast UHF exchange between Glory and Adam, using it for cover.
Glory hissed a simple tune then and I tried “I’ve been to the depths” in my deepest voice. Adam issued a long series of screeches and yowls. A strange sound even emerged from the canister.
Finally, I said, “So what did he give you for the thing?”
“Can’t you guess?” Gomi replied. “A sense of humor. I’m the only one of my kind ever to have one, and it’s great—seeing the wacky side of life and the ironies. No more being mocked as ‘one of those humorless flying clods’ by the other races I encounter. I’ve got some zingers now will knock them over. In fact—I have this ambition of being a standup, fly-by-night comedian. Make the circuit of the worlds, do my shticks. A funny thing happened to me on my way through subspace. Ran into one of my relatives and our parcels got switched while we were talking. Hope his customer likes hot fungi sandwiches from the old country. His canister had a rare twenty-second-century synthoid bookkeeping brain, a thing I didn’t even realize till a lot later. Maybe the hot mustard masked it. There’s just no accounting for it. C’mon! Give me a break! You an audience or an oil painting? Maybe you’d like I should do some pro bono brain switching? Hey, professor, let’s have a little hard claw music!”
It rose, humming, and executed an eight-legged tap-dance about the foyer. I applauded lightly, hoping the creature would stop soon, as some of the more delicate pieces of furniture looked threatened. The others joined my clapping. Gomi took this as a call for an encore, however, and accompanying himself with an even higher-pitched humming, did a faster number about the room, disagreeing only with an end-table and a rocker.
“Fine stage presence and timing,” Adam said, “considering he only got his sense of humor a few minutes before you came in.”
“Indeed,” I said.
“Of course,” Glory added.
At that, Gomi bowed and was seated again. “… And a replacement brain of perhaps equal value,” it said. “You work out those coordinates yet, Macavity?”
Adam passed over a piece of paper covered with notations. “Yes. Can you read them all right?”
Half of the antennae flicked toward the paper. “Clear enough. Clear enough. I get there, exactamente, for a very special brain. Thanks. Hope you enjoy yours.”
It finished its drink, rose to its numerous appendages, unfurled its wings, and was gone, leaving behind the canister it had brought.
“‘Not snow, no, nor rain, nor heat, nor night keeps them from accomplishing their appointed rounds/” said Adam, rising to his feet and saluting. Then he stretched.
“No, but I’m sure this one breaks for graffiti, breaks for heads and breaks them—and when it learns that it’ll get a laugh in certain quarters it’ll doubtless learn to break wind.”
“You had that one ready,” he said, “which means that you anticipated mine. That’s scary.”
“I don’t admit to anything,” I said, “but I wouldn’t mind catching that act once he’s got it polished.”
Glory gave me a strange look and refrained from hissing.
“And speaking of polish,” I continued, remembering the cuff links, “we’ve picked up a little something …”
But before I could finish, the front door burst open and a familiar voice yelled, “And she was going to shoot me too. Then I was here, thank God!”
That’s what I got for not being quick enough to flick the Switch.
She was Morgan Barry, actress, and I’d been a fan ever since I’d done a full takeout on her when I was writing features for Onstage magazine. She came tearing into the reception room like a blond Valkyrie shouting, “Which one is the goddamn soul-changer?”
I’d spent three weeks with her, putting the story of her strange car
eer together. She was sweet, warm, appealing to the public, cooperative and hardworking with her colleagues. She had everything going for her except the one kink that was crippling her progress. She was a jinx.
Mama Baumberg was devoted to romantic literature and had named her Morgan after Morgan le Fay, the fairy sister of King Arthur, because she wanted her daughter to enchant and captivate the whole world. Better Mama should have named her after Mordred, the bad-news knight who ruined the Round Table.
So Morgan Baumberg became Morgan Barry, actress, and wherever she went back luck was sure to follow: props failed, sets collapsed, lights exploded, cameras jammed. The entertainment business is particularly vulnerable to superstitions—never whistle in a dressing room, never throw a hat on a bed, never wish a performer good luck—so of course everybody was afraid to work with this charming hoodoo.
Not so charming now. She glared at me. “You!”
“Yes. May I introduce Adam Maser, the goddamn soul-changer?”
“My God, you’re red!”
“And his assistant, Glory.”
“This is Morgan Barry, a magnificent actress, also known as Voodoo Barry.”
“Did you have to print that, damn you? Is that why you stopped seeing me?”
“Morgie, I still love you, but the piece was finished.”
She described me with a four-letter word, then turned the Valkyrie on Adam. “I want my luck changed.” But there was no resisting his warm smile and she returned it. “Please, kind sir?”
“Now what’s all this brouhaha, Ms. Barry? You’re obviously dressed for dinner … beautifully. Where? What happened? Why’d you wish here?”
“Cafe En Coeur, just across from the UN. I was there with Mal Mawson, one of my producers, and a potential backer. Mal brought me along to help coax the guy into putting up front money for a new series, ‘Country Western,’ about two Nashville singers who solve mysteries.”
I said, “Oy.”
“I’m going to be Wendy Western, who sings—no dubbing—and does all the shooting with a six-gun,” the Valkyrie informed me. “Any compliments beyond ‘Oy’?”
“And this is the shooting you were shouting about when you entered, Ms. Barry?” Adam asked.
“No. We were having drinks before dinner, laughing it up, softening him up, when damn if the backer’s wife didn’t appear out of nowhere and shoot him, and I got the hell out of there to here.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Why?! I was probably next.”
“I mean why’d she shoot him and maybe you?”
“From what she was screeching, she thought we were having an affair.”
Adam and Glory had their eyes fixed on Morgan as though they were looking right through her. There was a long silence. At last Morgan snapped, “Well?”
“Wait, “I said.
“For what?”
“They’re talking.”
“Talking! They aren’t even moving their—”
“They’re talking UHF. Ultra High Frequency.”
“Not to me, they aren’t. They—”
Adam broke in. “Sorry, Ms. Barry. We have been talking. UHF, as Alf said, but not to you. We’ve been talking to your brother.”
“Brother? What brother? I haven’t got any brother.”
“This will come as a shock to you, but you do have a brother and he’s here.”
“Here? Where? There’s only the four of us.”
“Inside you.”
“What? Brother? Inside? Me?” Morgan shook her head incredulously. “You’re crazy.”
“Please sit down and listen. Yours is a fascinating problem which my assistant has already solved. There will be no more bad luck.”
Morgan sank down, dumbfounded. I wasn’t exactly on top of it myself.
“Do be patient,” Adam continued. “When your mother conceived, fraternal twins developed, brother and sister. But during the gestation, the sister embryo overgrew the brother embryo, engulfed him and incorporated him in yourself as a fraternal cyst. This is unusual but not unique. There have been many such cases.”
“I… I did a dreadful thing like that?” Morgan stammered.
“Not consciously. Not deliberately,” Glory assured her. “How could you? It was pure accident.”
“I f-feel like a cannibal.”
“Nonsense,” Adam laughed. “Your brother’s alive, and that’s unique. He’s an enclosed, living cyst, and he’s lonely and irascible because he’s isolated: no friends, no one to talk to.”
“Wh-why has he never talked to me?”
“He can receive full frequency but can only transmit UHF, which infuriates him. And what’s been worse for you, he’s a warlock, a witch-cyst.”
Adam paused long enough to allow it to sink in.
“Your brother’s been your jinx. The most trivial things can sting him into casting malevolent spells. Your guest’s cocktail conversation annoyed him so he put a stop to it via the jealous wife. He conjured that false conviction into her mind.”
“How has Glory solved the problem?” I asked.
“She’s promised him a friend. He won’t be lonely and angry any more.”
“Someone that hears and speaks UHF?”
“And your speech, too. A charming lady friend. It all depends on Ms. Barry.”
“Wh-what depends on m-me?”
Macavity became his most beguiling, which was as overwhelming as his persona power. Or maybe it was the same thing. “How would you like to headline yourself with an unusual pet to be with you at all times: bright, friendly, captivating, an attention-getter?”
“Like Cheetah, Tarzan’s chimp?” But I was ignored.
Morgan could only look at Adam with wide eyes. “I— I haven’t the foggiest what you’re talking about,” she faltered.
“Bok Pang, one of the Panda crowd,” Glory said. “Dammy’s bringing her over for your brother—should arrive in a few days—and he swears that from now on he’ll magic nothing but good luck for you.”
“Go back to the Cafe En Coeur,” Adam said. “The guest’s alive. Your brother made his wife a lousy shot; didn’t want you killed, too. The backer’s so delighted to be the center of attention that he’s putting up the front money.”
Morgan shook her head. “It’s all taken care of? The bad luck?”
“All. Wendy Western and Panda Bok are going to win Emmy awards.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“Your brother’s promise. Wish back and find out.”
“I— What do I have to pay? I—”
“Forget it, Morgie,” I broke in. “That piece I did on you for OnStage got me a fat contract with Rigadoon. I owe you. I’ll take care of it.”
She burst into tears, tried to kiss us all at the same time, and headed for the front door supported by Glory.
“I don’t have to wish you luck,” Adam said. “You’ve got it already.”
Once we heard the door shut, Adam’s hand moved past me
to pick up the Klein Ruffino bottle.
“This thing, Alf,” he said. “What’s the scoop?”
“I gave a full bottle to an old bum named Urtch who’d turned up in an entranceway after the Switch was thrown.”
“‘Urtch’? As in ‘Demiurtch’?”
“He just said ‘Urtch.’”
Adam growled softly.
“And he did this to the bottle afterwards?”
“I didn’t see him do it, but that’s how I found it later.”
“And he stayed out there while the Switch was on?”
“Insisted.”
“What became of him?”
“He just sort of disappeared before I looked again.”
“He do or say anything else interesting?”
“Tossed his first empty into the fog to show me a photon smear. When I told him I thought I saw something moving out there he said it was the Ouroboros Serpent.”
“Hm. That tells me something about timing.”
“Of what?”
/>
“Oh, it’s just a private superstition I— Gods! I’ve got it myself! The fresh superstition! I have an ingredient to donate! Excuse me.” He picked up the brain canister and ran off toward the Hellhole. “Every little bit helps,” he said.
I went to the kitchen and made hot chocolate. Later, while we were drinking it, Adam emerged, wiping his hands on his trousers, and threw himself down upon a sofa.
I poured a cup and took it to him.
“Challenging chocolate,” he said tasting it. “The new ingredients add amazing dimensions.”
“Are we drinking the same chocolate?” I asked, raising mine to sip again.
“Iddroid ingredients, Blackie. Just ran three simulations with what we’ve got and had a different result each time. It’s definitely nonlinear now. The uncertainty of life will be in it. The inconnu!”
Glory came up on his other side and You-Hiffed at him. He held out his hand. She deposited my cuff links in it. He scrutinized them, weighing them with his hand.
He reached up, unzipped the air in front of him, reached inside the slit and drew forward a unit about the size of a can opener. It hung suspended before him.
“Parlor work station,” Glory explained.
He attached a pair of wires from the unit and pressed a design on its front. Then he raised his eyes to read something it displayed.
“Beta Cygnus,” he announced. “Earth design, metallic compound from Beta Cygnus,” and he detached the leads, pushed everything back out of sight, and zipped space shut once more. Again, he bounced the links in his hand. Then, “Otherwise innocuous,” he added. “No concealed transmitter, no hidden explosive. Nada.”
He handed them to me.
“You knew something was hidden in your apartment, but you did not know what,” he said.
“That’s right.”
“Nan tells me you’re aware of your identity with the clones.”
“Correct.”
“Then it would seem the cuff links are more in the nature of a reminder to you or a caution to me that something is in the offing—rather than any threat in themselves. Did their discovery set off any special chain of reminiscences or compulsions?”
“No,” I said, truthfully, thinking of myself in the mirror—and happy that that was before the links discovery.
Psychoshop Page 10