‘Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear,’ Carmody said. ‘I mean, how can you provide bulk for your body if you are simultaneously using that bulk to feed your body with?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand that,’ the Prize said.
‘Let me try again. I mean this: if you consume your flesh –’
‘And in fact I do,’ the Prize put in.
‘If you consume your flesh, and utilize the product of that consumption for the nutrition of that same flesh … Just a minute. If you weighed fifty pounds –’
‘In point of fact, on my home planet I weigh precisely fifty pounds.’
‘Excellent! Well, then. If you weigh fifty pounds, and, over the course of, let us say a year, consume forty pounds of yourself in order to support yourself, then what are you left with?’
‘Ten pounds?’ the Prize asked.
‘Goddamn it, can’t you see what I’m driving at? You simply cannot nourish yourself on yourself for any length of time.’
‘Why can’t I?’ the Prize asked.
‘The Law of Diminishing Returns,’ Carmody said, feeling lightheaded. ‘Eventually there will be no more of you left for you to feed upon, and you will die.’
‘I am quite aware of that,’ the Prize said. ‘But death is an inexorable fact, as true and unavoidable for the self-eaters as for the other-eaters. Everything and everybody dies, Carmody, no matter who or what it feeds upon.’
‘You’re putting me on!’ Carmody howled. ‘If you really did feed like that, you’d be dead in a week.’
‘There are insects whose lifespan is but a single day,’ the Prize said. ‘Actually, we Prizes do rather well, longevity-wise. Remember, the more we consume, the less of us there is to be nourished, and the longer the remaining food lasts. And time is a great factor in autopredation. Most Prizes consume their future while in their infancy, thus leaving the actual corpus untouched until they have come into their maturity.’
‘How do they consume their future?’ Carmody asked.
‘I can’t explain how,’ the Prize said. ‘We simply do it, that’s all. I, for example, gobbled up my substance for the ages eighty through ninety-two – senile years, by the way, which I wouldn’t have enjoyed anyway. Now, by rationing my intake of myself, I think I can make it to my late seventies.’
‘You’re giving me a headache,’ Carmody said. ‘And you’re also making me somewhat nauseous.’
‘Indeed?’ said the Prize indignantly. ‘You’ve got a hell of a nerve to feel nauseous! You bloody butcher, how many animal sections have you consumed in your lifetime? How many defenceless apples have you gobbled, how many heads of lettuce have you callously ripped from their beds? I have eaten an occasional orithi, to be sure; but at Judgement Day you will have to face the herds you have devoured. They will stand before you, Carmody, hundreds of brown-eyed cows, thousands of defenceless hens, endless rows of gentle little lambs; to say nothing of the forests of raped fruit trees and the acres of savaged gardens. I will pay for the orithi I have eaten; but how will you ever atone for the shrieking mounds of animal and vegetable life that you have feasted upon? How, Carmody, how?’
‘Shut up,’ Carmody said.
‘Oh, very well,’ the Prize said sulkily.
‘I eat because I must. It’s part of my nature. That’s all there is to it.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I damned well do say so! Now will you shut up and let me concentrate?’
‘I won’t say another word,’ the Prize said, ‘except to ask you what you are trying to concentrate on.’
‘This place looks like my home town,’ Carmody explained. ‘I’m trying to decide if it really is or not.’
‘Surely that can’t be so difficult,’ the Prize said. ‘I mean to say, one knows one’s own home town, doesn’t one?’
‘No. I never looked at it closely while I lived here, and I didn’t think about it much after I left.’
‘If you can’t figure out what is your home and what is not,’ the Prize said, ‘then no one can. I hope you realize that.’
‘I realize it,’ Carmody said. He began to walk slowly down Maplewood Avenue. He had the sudden terrible feeling that any decision he made would be wrong.
CHAPTER 27
Carmody looked as he walked, and observed as he looked. It seemed like the place he thought it should seem like. The Maplewood Theatre was on his right; today’s feature was The Saga of Elephantine, an Italian-French adventure film directed by Jacques Marat, the brilliant young director who had given the world the deeply moving Song of My Wounds and the swiftly paced comedy Paris Times Fourteen. On the stage, for a limited engagement only, was the new vocal group, Iakonnen and the Fungi.
‘Sounds like a fun film,’ Carmody remarked.
‘Not my sort of thing,’ the Prize said.
Carmody stopped at Marvin’s Haberdashery and looked in the window. He saw loafers and saddle shoes, hound’s-tooth check jackets, wide, boldly patterned neckties, white shirts with spread collars. Next to it, at the stationery store, he glanced at the current Colliers, leafed through Liberty, noticed Munsey’s, Black Cat, and The Spy. The morning edition of The Sun had just come out.
‘Well?’ the Prize asked. ‘Is this the place?’
‘I’m still checking,’ Carmody said. ‘But it looks pretty favourable so far.’
He crossed the street and looked into Edgar’s Luncheonette. It hadn’t changed. There was a pretty girl sitting at the counter, sipping a soda. Carmody recognized her at once.
‘Lana Turner! Hey, how are you, Lana?’
‘I’m fine, Tom,’ Lana said. ‘Long time no see.’
‘I used to date her in high school,’ he explained to the Prize as they walked on. ‘It’s funny how it all comes back to you.’
‘I suppose so,’ the Prize said doubtfully.
At the next corner, the intersection of Maplewood Avenue and South Mountain Road, there was a policeman. He was directing traffic, but he took time to grin at Carmody.
‘That’s Burt Lancaster,’ Carmody said. ‘He was all-state fullback on the best team Columbia High School ever had. And look, over there! That man going into the hardware store, the one who waved at me! That’s Clifton Webb, our high-school principal. And down the block, do you see that blonde woman? That’s Jean Harlow. She used to be the waitress at the Maplewood Restaurant.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Everybody said she was fast.’
‘You seem to know a lot of people,’ the Prize said.
‘Well, of course I do! I was raised here! Miss Harlow is going into Pierre’s Beauty Parlour.’
‘Do you know Pierre, also?’
‘Sure. He’s a hairdresser now, but during the war he was in the French Resistance. What was his name again? Jean-Pierre Aumont, that’s it! He married one of our local girls, Carole Lombard.’
‘Interesting,’ the Prize said in a bored voice.
‘Well, it’s interesting for me. Here comes a man I know … Good day, Mr Mayor.’
‘Good day, Tom,’ the man said, and tipped his hat and walked on.
‘That’s Fredric March, our mayor,’ Carmody said. ‘He’s a tremendous person! I can still remember the debate between him and our local radical, Paul Muni. Boy, you never heard anything like it!’
‘Hmm,’ said the Prize. ‘There is something strange about all this, Carmody. Something uncanny, something not right. Don’t you feel it?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Carmody said. ‘I’m telling you, I grew up with these people, I know them better than I know myself. Hey, there’s Paulette Goddard over there. She’s the assistant librarian. Hi, Paulette!’
‘Hi, Tom,’ the woman said.
‘I don’t like this,’ the Prize said.
‘I never knew her very well,’ Carmody said. ‘She used to go with a boy from Millburn named Humphrey Bogart. He always wore bow ties, can you imagine that? He had a fight once with Lon Chaney, the school janitor. Licked him, too. I remember that because I was dating June Hav
oc at the time, and her best friend was Myrna Loy, and Myrna knew Bogart, and –’
‘Carmody!’ the Prize said urgently. ‘Watch yourself! Have you ever heard of pseudo-acclimatization?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Carmody said. ‘I tell you, I know these people! grew up here, and it was a damned good place to grow up in! People weren’t just blobs like they are now; people really stood for something. People were individuals then, not crowds!’
‘Are you quite sure of this? Your predator –’
‘Rats, I don’t want to hear any more about it,’ Carmody said. ‘Look! There’s David Niven! His parents are English.’
‘These people are coming towards you,’ the Prize said.
‘Well, sure they are,’ Carmody said. ‘They haven’t seen me for a long time.’
He stood on the corner and his friends came down the pavement and the street, out of stores and shops. There were literally hundreds of them, all smiling, all old friends. He spotted Alan Ladd, Dorothy Lamour and Larry Buster Crabbe. And over there he saw Spencer Tracy, Lionel Barrymore, Freddy Bartholomew, John Wayne, Frances Farmer –
‘There’s something wrong with this,’ the Prize said.
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ Carmody insisted. His friends were all present, they were moving closer to him, holding out their hands, and he was happier than he had ever been since leaving his home. He was amazed that he could have forgotten how it had been. But he remembered now.
‘Carmody!’ the Prize shouted.
‘What is it?’
‘Is there always this music in your world?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about the music,’ the Prize said. ‘Don’t you hear it?’
Carmody noticed it for the first time. A symphony orchestra was playing, but he couldn’t tell where it was coming from.
‘How long has that been going on?’
‘Ever since we got here,’ the Prize told him. ‘When you started down the street there was a soft thunder of drums. Then, when you passed the theatre, a lively air was played on a trumpet. This changed, when you looked into the luncheonette, to a rather saccharine melody played by several hundred violins. Then –’
‘That was background music,’ Carmody said dully. ‘This whole damned thing was scored, and I didn’t even notice it.’
Franchot Tone reached out and touched his sleeve. Gary Cooper dropped a big hand on his shoulder. Laird Cregar gave him an affectionate bear hug. Shirley Temple seized his right foot. The others pressed closer, all still smiling.
‘Seethwright!’ Carmody shouted. ‘For God’s sake, Seethwright!’
After that, things happened a little too fast for his comprehension.
PART FIVE
The Return to Earth
CHAPTER 28
Carmody was in New York City, on Riverside Drive and Ninety-ninth Street. To the west, above the Jersey shore, the sun was dropping down behind Horizon House, and, to the right, the Spry sign had come on in all its glory. The trees of Riverside Park, clad in green and soot, rustled faintly in the exhaust fumes from the West Side Drive. Around him he could hear the screams of frustrated, highly-strung children, punctuated by an occasional bellow from their equally frustrated and highly- strung parents.
‘Is this your home?’ asked the Prize.
Carmody looked down and saw that the Prize had metamorphosed again, appearing now as a Dick Tracy watch with hidden stereo speaker.
‘It looks like it,’ Carmody said.
‘Seems like rather an interesting spot,’ the Prize said. ‘Lively. I like that.’
‘Yeah,’ Carmody said reluctantly, not at all sure how he felt about his home.
He began to walk uptown. The lights had come on in Riverside Park. Mothers with baby carriages were leaving, and soon the park would be left alone to police cars and muggers. All around him the smog rolled in on little cat feet. Buildings could be glimpsed through it like giants who had lost their way. To either side, the sewers ran merrily into the Hudson, while at the same time the Hudson ran merrily into the sewers.
‘Hey, Carmody!’
Carmody stopped and turned. A man was walking briskly towards him. The man wore a business suit, sneakers, a bowler, and a white canvas ascot. Carmody recognized him as George Marundi, an indigent artist of his acquaintance.
‘Hey, man,’ said Marundi, coming up and shaking hands.
‘Hey, hey,’ said Carmody, smiling like an accomplice.
‘Well, man, how you been?’ Marundi asked.
‘Oh, you know,’ Carmody said.
‘Indeed, do I not know!’ Marundi said. ‘Helen’s been asking about you.’
‘That a fact?’Carmody said.
‘Most assuredly. Dicky Tait’s throwing a party next Saturday. You wanna come?’
‘Sure,’ Carmody said. ‘How is Tait?’
‘Well, man, you know.’
‘Sure, I know,’ Carmody said, in a tone of deep compassion. ‘Still, eh?’
‘What would you expect?’ Marundi asked.
Carmody shrugged.
‘Isn’t anyone going to introduce me?’ the Prize asked.
‘Shut up!’ Carmody said.
‘Hey, man, what’s that you got there?’ Marundi bent down and peered at Carmody’s wrist. ‘Little tape recorder, huh? That’s the greatest, baby, the greatest. You got it programmed?’
‘I am not programmed,’ the Prize said. ‘I am autonomous.’
‘Hey, that’s beautiful!’ Marundi said. ‘I mean, it really is. Hey there, Mickey Mouse, what else you got to say?’
‘Go screw yourself,’ the Prize said.
‘Stop it!’ Carmody whispered urgently.
‘Well now,’ Marundi said, grinning, ‘little fellow’s got a lot of spunk, eh Carmie?’
‘That he has,’ Carmody said.
‘Where’d you get it?’
‘I got it – well, I got it while I was away.’
‘You’ve been away? I guess that’s why I haven’t seen you around for these last several months.’
‘That must be it,’ Carmody said.
‘Where away have you been?’ Marundi asked.
It was on the tip of Carmody’s tongue to say that had been in Miami. But instead he was inspired to say, ‘I have been out in the Universe, the Cosmos itself, wherein I have passed through certain selected short subjects which shall henceforward be known as reality.’
Marundi nodded with understanding. ‘You been on a Trip, yes, man?’
‘Indeed I have.’
‘And on that Trip you have perceived the molecular all-in-oneness of all things and have listened to the energies of your body, nicht wahr?’
‘Not exactly,’ Carmody said. ‘Upon my particular Trip, I observed most particularly the discretionary energies of other creations and went beyond the personal-molecular into the external-atomic. That is to say, my Trip convinced me of the reality, to say nothing of the existence, of creatures other than myself.’
‘That sounds like powerful acid,’ Marundi said. ‘Where might it be obtained?’
‘The Acid of Experience is distilled from the dull weed of Practice,’ Carmody said. ‘Objective existence is desired by many but obtained by few.’
‘You won’t talk, huh?’ Marundi said. ‘Never mind, baby, any Trip you can make I can make better.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘I doubt not that you doubt that. But never mind. Are you coming to the Opening?’
‘What Opening?’
Marundi looked at him with amazement. ‘Man, you have not only been away, you have been out of touch besides. Today is the opening of what is past a doubt the most important art exhibition of our times and perhaps of any times.’
‘What is this paragon of aesthetics?’ Carmody asked.
‘I am going there,’ Marundi said. ‘Accompany me.’
Despite the mumblings of the Prize, Carmody fell into step beside his friend. They walked uptown, and Marundi told
the latest gossip: how the House Un-American Activities Committee had been found guilty of Un-Americanism but had got off with a suspended sentence; the success of Pepperidge Farm’s new Freez-a-Man Plan; how five US Air Cavalry divisions had yesterday succeeded in killing five Vietcong guerrillas; how NBC-TV had begun a wildly successful new series entitled Adventures in Laissez-Faire Capitalism. And he also learned that General Motors, in a gesture of unprecendented patriotism, had sent a regiment of clerical volunteers led by a vice- president to Xien Ka near the Cambodian border.
Thus they conversed, and at length they came to 106th Street, where several buildings had been razed and a new structure erected to stand in their stead. This structure appeared to be a castle, but such a one as Carmody had never before seen. And he addressed his companion, the high-spirited Marundi, asking for an explanation.
‘This massy building that you see before you,’ Marundi said, ‘was designed by the architect Delvanuey, who also planned Death Trap 66, the famous New York toll road which no one has succeeded in driving from start to finish without accident. This same Delvanuey, you may recall, drew up the plans for Flash-Point Towers, Chicago’s newest slum, the only slum in the world in which form follows function; that is to say, the first slum which is proudly and avowedly designed as a slum, and which has been certified “unrenewable” by The President’s Commission on the Perpetration of Fine Arts in Urbanamerica.’
‘That is a singular accomplishment,’ Carmody said. ‘What does he call this particular structure?’
‘This is his opus magnus,’ Marundi said. ‘This, my friend, is The Castle of Garbage.’
The roadway to the Castle, Carmody perceived, was cunningly constructed of egg shells, orange peels, avocado stones and clam shells. It led to a great doorway whose two sides were made of rusty bedsprings. Above the gate, in letters formed by varnished fishheads, was the motto: ‘Wastefulness in the defence of luxury is no vice; moderation in the dissemination of excess is no virtue.’
They entered and walked through hallways of pressed cardboard, coming at last to an open courtyard in which a fountain of napalm blazed merrily away. They went past it into a room made of aluminium, steel, polyethylene, formica, styrene, bakelite, concrete, simulated walnut, acrilan and vinyl. Beyond that, other corridors branched out.
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