Dayworld

by Philip José Farmer

  Whatever had caused this, the ballooning glow was now a fast-shrinking flicker.

  “I don’t think that she has to be killed,” Dunski said. “Look at what she knows. She was trailing Castor, and he knocked her out. She wakes up in a stoner and sees only a masked man who makes her unconscious again. For all she knows, the man who knocked her out again is Castor. She—”

  “Is Castor the same height and build as I am?” Gaunt said. “Was he wearing the same clothes?”

  “No,” Dunski said slowly. “But she only glimpsed you. The door partly hid your body. Anyway, she doesn’t have the slightest idea that anybody but Castor is involved. What could she tell the authorities if she was found and destoned?”

  He paused to swallow and said, “Does she even have to be stoned permanently? Wouldn’t it work out better—for us—if she’s found tomorrow, no, wait a minute, she might not be found until next Thursday.”

  He turned to Blonde. “How long will they—Martin and Bunblossom—be on vacation?”

  “They’ll be back tomorrow, I mean, their tomorrow, next Thursday.”

  “That gives us a week before she’s found,” Dunski said, turning to Gaunt.

  “Not us, you,” Gaunt said. “The rest of us get stoned before midnight.”

  “By us, I mean immers,” Dunski said. “We should have Castor out of the way before then. We’d better; we have to get him today. We’re wasting time with Snick. We should all be out looking for Castor.”

  Gaunt looked down on the gently breathing woman. He turned toward the others but looked directly at Dunski.

  “You haven’t really thought this out,” Gaunt said. “You’re letting your humane feelings kill your logic, you sense of duty and of right, what’s right for us.

  “Castor is our out for this problem. I mean by that, the Snick problem. The organics here know he’s killed and mutilated two women. If…if Snick is found dead and mutilated, the organics will think that Castor did it. That diverts suspicion from anyone else. And it’ll be next Sunday before its government sends out a replacement. If it does.”

  Blonde, her hand to her mouth, said softly, “Oh, God! You’re going to butcher her!”

  17.

  “You…can’t…do…that,” Dunski said.

  Gaunt mocked him. “And…why…not?”

  “That’s not very prosocial behavior,” Blonde said.

  Dunski found himself laughing hysterically at that.

  “Oh, my God, prosocial behavior!” he said, choking. “We’re talking about a human being here.”

  “Yes,” Gaunt said. “But it’s for the greater good. All right! No more talk! I’ve never seen such a gabby bunch, parrots, my God! You’re supposed to be immers, but you…you…”

  Dunski had managed to get hold of himself almost literally. He felt invisible hands, coming from somewhere, placed upon something somewhere within himself. Father Tom?

  Gaunt said, “I’ve made up my mind, and I’m the leader here. You have to do what I tell you.”

  “I haven’t been told that you’re in command,” Dunski said. “What’s your authority?”

  Gaunt’s nostrils flared; his face got red.

  “Your superior didn’t tell you that I’d be in command?”

  “My superior tells me as little as possible,” Dunski said coldly. “Apparently, he told me less than he should. Anyway…”

  He turned and walked to his shoulderbag, which was on the floor in a corner. He picked it up, opened it, and put the strap over his right shoulder. Though Gaunt was furious, he was cool enough to realize that Dunski had made a threatening, if subtle, move. Gaunt had not forgotten that Dunski had a gun.

  Gaunt’s voice was firm, though his head shook a little. “As you said, we don’t have time to discuss this. And I am in command here. We will dispose of Snick as I said we would because it’s the only logical thing to do. And because I said so.”

  “Are you going to mutilate her or are you going to get someone else to do it?” Dunski said.

  “What does it matter who does it!” Gaunt said, his voice louder. “It’ll be done!”

  He had looked at his shoulderbag, which was on a small table near the end of the sofa close to Snick’s feet. Dunski supposed that Gaunt had a weapon in his bag. He asked himself what he would do if the man went for the gun. Was he really prepared to shoot a fellow immer to stop him from killing an organic? He would not know until the time came, and he did not want that time to come.

  Time, however, was creeping or sliding or flowing or proceeding in whatever unknown manner Time used to make Then into Now. During the next few seconds, one of the two alternate futures would be chosen. Or would just happen, choice not being one of the factors in the taking of the road.

  Blonde said, her voice thin, “I can’t believe this is happening!”

  “Neither can I,” Gaunt said. He moved backward away from Dunski, coming closer to his shoulderbag. “I may have to report your emotional instability to the council.”

  Dunski lied. “It isn’t so much the killing. It’s the butchering. It makes me sick. You should understand that. I was…am…close to vomiting. But if it has to be done…”

  Gaunt seemed to loosen a little. “It does. And I’ll do it. I wouldn’t ask anyone else to do it.”

  He looked down at Snick. “Believe me, if there was any other way…” He spoke to Blonde. “You and this man,” meaning Dunski, “put her in the stoner.”

  Gaunt was shrewd. If Dunski had his hands full, he could not go for his weapon.

  “You can’t kill her here,” Blonde said. “The organics will investigate everybody in the building. They might stumble across something. I’d be implicated.”

  “I know that,” Gaunt said coolly. “She’ll be taken elsewhere. I don’t even want you to know where. None of you.”

  Dunski lifted Snick by her shoulders. How soft and warm she was. How soon to be hard and cold. And then soft and warm again, and then torn apart. He felt numbed. As if he was sharing a little her death.

  Blonde grabbed the legs, and the two carried her to the stoner. They propped her up, pushed her into the cylinder in a sitting position, and pushed again on the torso, which had fallen forward. Dunski lifted her legs and pushed them so that they were against her breasts. He raised himself up and backed away while Blonde shut the door. Gaunt turned the control that applied the power and watched the dial as it spun back to OFF.

  “All of you clear out,” Gaunt said. “Go back to whatever you were doing. We’ll get in touch with you when we need you.”

  Blonde started weeping. Gaunt looked disgusted. Dunski patted her on the shoulder and said, “There’s a price to pay for immortality.” That made Gaunt look even more disgusted. Dark, her eyes lowered, took Blonde’s hand and said, “Let’s go.”

  Dunski watched them leave through the door to the hail. When the door had closed behind the two, he looked at the cylinder holding Snick. The window was as empty as her future.

  Gaunt said, “Well?”

  He was standing by the shoulderbag, his right hand resting on it. Dunski said, “Don’t worry. I’m going.”

  Gaunt looked at him and down at the bag. Smiling slightly, he said, “You’ll see that I’m right. Get a good sleep. You’ll wake up a new man tomorrow.”

  “I always do,” Dunski said. “Maybe that’s part of the trouble.”

  Gaunt frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  He did not care to say good-bye or anything that indicated that he would like to see him again. He started toward the door, conscious that Gaunt was watching him closely. Dunski was not sure that he was not going to make a last appeal for Snick. It would not be with words; it would be with the gun. But that would be stupid, nonsurvival. Even if he could save Snick, what would he do with her? He did not have the means that the immer organization had for spiriting her away. And Gaunt was right, logically right, though he was emotionally wrong. Or was he? What was, in the absolute sense, righ
t?

  He had just reached the door when he heard a shrilling. He turned and saw Gaunt walking to an orange-flashing wall strip. Gaunt said something softly, and the strip showed the face of a man. Dunski walked back to where he could see the strip from behind Gaunt. The man saw Dunski and said, “Is…should he hear this?”

  Gaunt said, harshly, “How would I know? I don’t know what you’re going to say.”

  The man said, “Well, this concerns all of us.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Castor. He’s killed again!”

  Dunski felt as if something inside him had turned over and died. He knew what the man was going to tell them.

  “The organics have just found a woman’s body in an apartment on Bleecker Street. She was mutilated, just like the other women. Her intestines were ripped out, and her breasts were cut off and glued to the wall. Her name was Nokomis Moondaughter, a tante of Wednesday. She was the wife of a Robert Tingle. He’s not a suspect because he’s still in his cylinder, and it’s evident that the woman was killed less than an hour ago. Castor must have gotten into the apartment, destoned her, and killed and butchered her while the tenants were gone. They came back and found her. It’s his handiwork, all right.”

  Dunski made a strangled noise and turned away. He walked to the sofa, sat down, stared at Gaunt, who was talking and glancing back at him, got up, and walked to the kitchen. He poured out coffee with a shaking hand, sipped it, put the cup down, and walked to the big window. His grief was there but numbed. He was as sluggish as a glacier from toe to scalp.

  Staring through the sheers at the street scene, he muttered, “I can’t take much more of this.”

  Gaunt coughed behind him. He said, “The woman…she was your wife?”

  Dunski kept looking through the windows as. he said, “In a way.”

  The bright sunshine was gone. The lighter heralds of the advancing storm had colored the sky gray.

  “I’m very sorry,” Gaunt said. “But…”

  “There’s always a but, isn’t there?”

  Gaunt coughed again. “This time, there is. We have to get to Castor fast. The organics may not have been too upset by what Castor did Tuesday, but they know now what he did on Wednesday and will probably do today. They’ll launch an all-out search.”

  Dunski said, “Rupert!”

  “What?”

  “My wife. She’s in grave danger.”

  “No more than you,” Gaunt said. “He’s tried once to kill you, and he’ll keep trying until you’re dead or he’s dead.”

  Dunski turned to face Gaunt. The man looked pale.

  “Rupert has to be protected.”

  “I’ve already sent two to guard her,” Gaunt said. “They’ll tell her what’s happened.” He shook his head. “This is getting worse and worse.”

  “I don’t know what to do. There’s no sense in just roaming around hoping I’ll see Castor.”

  “I know that,” Gaunt said. “I think you should go home with Rupert and wait there. Castor may try to get to you there. The guards will be out of sight but watching.”

  “We’ll be decoys?”

  “A waiting game. Meanwhile, every immer in Manhattan and many in the neighboring cities will be here looking for Castor.”

  “I doubt that Castor would try to get into my apartment. There are too many other people there.”

  Gaunt bit his lip and said, “Yes, I know.” Evidently, he did not approve of communal marriages.

  Gaunt had said nothing about Tingle’s dummy being disturbed, and, if he had heard anything, he would not have kept quiet about it. Castor could have removed the dummies of Caird and Tingle and so revealed to the organics that they were daybreakers. He had not done so because he wanted to kill Caird. If the organics got hold of him first, they would prevent Castor from getting his revenge and from ridding the universe of Castor’s Satan.

  Dunski said, “I think I’m going into shock.”

  “You look like it,” Gaunt said. “Follow me.” They went into the living room. Dunski sat down. Gaunt took a syringe from his bag and picked up the bottle of alcohol. “Lift your arm.”

  Dunski did so, saying, “What’s that for?”

  “It’ll make you feel better for a while. The drug doesn’t get rid of the shock; it just delays it.”

  The syringe shot a bluish liquid into Dunski’s arm. He felt a warmth and a rush of blood. His heart pounded; the numbness evaporated. He could almost see it steaming off.

  Gaunt said, “Feel better now?”

  “Much better. I’m glad it wasn’t a sedative. J need to be on my toes.”

  “It perks you up for a while,” Gaunt said. “But you have to pay the price later.”

  Dunski thought, There’s always a price. What’s the price for being an immer? Why do I ask that, stupid? I’m paying it now and am a long way off from paying all of the debt.

  He rose, started toward the door again, stopped, gestured at the cylinder, and said, “Does she…”

  “Yes, she does,” Gaunt said. “I don’t know about you, Dunski. You seem to have trouble accepting the inevitable. I can understand how you must feel, I think I can, anyway, but you’re not showing immer quality.”

  “It just doesn’t seem right,” Dunski murmured.

  “The right way is the best way. Go on now. Your wife will be waiting for you.”

  Dunski opened the door and turned for a last look. Gaunt was staring hard at him. The man’s will was as hard as the bodies in the cylinders. He closed the door and went down the hall to the door. Opening it, he was wetted by the rain. He stepped back in and took from the bag a yellow roll no longer or thinner than his index finger. Holding a tab at its one end between two fingers, he snapped it. The roll became a raincoat with attached hood, electric sparks crackling from its hem.

  Clad in the raincoat, he stepped out into the fierce downpour. The street was deserted except for a bicyclist pedaling madly, bent over, the wheels splashing water. From far off, thunder rumbled, and lightning coursed through the dark western mass like the shining arteries of a god.

  He did not have to go home at once. Rupert should be safe. Gaunt would not like his orders disobeyed, but what could he do? Not much if he, Jim Dunski, did nothing but hang around for a while here and then take his time going home. If he did what was so raging, though so vague, in his mind, he would suffer severe punishment. Perhaps, Gaunt might arrange an accident for him and so dispose of him. That, however, would cause a chain of problems for the immers. If Dunski disappeared or was killed, then Caird, Tingle, Repp, Ohm, Zurvan, and Isharashvili would also disappear.

  The seven roles had put him in danger. On the other hand, they were insurance of a sort against the immers’ turning against him. If the situation became desperate, though, the immers could cancel his policy and take their chances.

  18.

  Jim Dunski stood for a while and wondered what he would do, what he should do, when the second of decision came. He could walk away and leave Snick to die. Or he could try to rescue her. Logic, self-survival, and common sense urged him to leave here as quickly as possible. His horror at the concept of murder and his vision of Snick being murdered—no concept this, but a vividly red image—rooted him.

  Do the ends justify the means? That was an ancient question that had only one answer if you had a heart.

  But if he did what was right, then he was wrong.

  “I should have thought of this when I swore utter loyalty forever,” he muttered. A little later, he said, “But it’s not like I’m turning them in, exposing them. If I just get her away, somehow, and hide her, all of us immers will still be safe.”

  At that moment, he knew that he was not going to let Gaunt kill her. Not if he could help it. He did have a plan to do this, though it was wild and could easily go awry. Read for awry, his death.

  He looked up and down the street. The two whom Gaunt had said would be watching him were not in sight. No doubt, they could see him. If Castor appear
ed, they would close in and kill him, though they might be too late to save their fellow immer, himself. For all he knew, Gaunt had decided that he should be the sacrificial victim, the throwaway decoy.

  No. Gaunt would not wish Dunski to die in these circumstances. He would want a well-planned coverup before that happened.

  The rain fell heavily as he walked. Behind him, thunder and lightning came nearer as if they were stalking him. He stopped at the corner of Jones and Seventh and looked up and down the broad avenue. There were no pedestrians or bicyclers, and the car traffic was much lighter than usual. Two taxis, a government limousine, and an organic patrol car. The latter was cruising at five miles an hour, its headlights on, its two occupants rain-blurry behind the windshield. They did not seem to have looked at the lone man in the yellow hood and coat.

  The storm was what Gaunt should have asked for. It was blocking the sky-eyes and removing possible witnesses from the streets. Even people looking out their windows would be half-blinded.

  Presently, a white van with black zebra stripes appeared north on Seventh, two blocks away. There were three thousand such in Manhattan, all vehicles of the State Cleaning Corps of all days. It slowed at the light and eased through on the yellow. Dunski was not surprised when it turned onto Jones Street. The SCC van could stop at the apartment, its corpspersons could enter the building and come out with a large package or a cart filled with something concealed by a tarpaulin, and no one would be suspicious. Any watcher might commend the Corps for doing its duty in such bad weather.

  He turned to watch the van do just what he thought it would. Two men in the uniform of Thursday’s SCC, green trousers with bellbottom cuffs and loose scarlet coats, got out of the van. One opened the rear doors; the other reached in and pulled out a folding cart. They stood before the door a few seconds, waiting for Gaunt to identify them on the strip. As soon as they had disappeared into the building, Dunski walked slowly down the long block toward the van. He looked across the street at the building opposite. It was one of the modern boat-shaped structures with a large yard with many trees and bushes. He spotted a dark figure standing in a doorway under the overhang of the building. That must be one of his guards.