by K. W. Jeter
“Uh . . . no, no, thanks. I’m not hungry.” Albert shifted uneasily in the chair, as though Vogel’s ebullient mood was about to smother him. He felt more queasy than hungry, even though he had only picked at his dinner last night and his breakfast this morning, to the point that May had started to worry aloud that he might be sick. “Please don’t bother—”
“How about a drink, then? Little early in the day, I know, but still . . . all part of the job, right?” Vogel laughed, then reached into a cardboard box behind the desk; he came up with a bottle, unlabelled except for a number scrawled on a piece of sticky tape. “The White Gold people sent this over just yesterday.” The contents of the bottle shifted lumpily around. “Their latest brain wave—floral-scented soured milk! Genius concept, huh? Newcomers are traditionally big on the ol’ nature trip, and there aren’t many who don’t go in for a blast of the curds now and then, so why not combine the two?”
“I don’t know . . .” The odor from the uncapped bottle had hit Albert; it reminded him of some of the heavy-duty janitorial products he had used back at the police station. “Smells kinda . . . strong.”
“Think so?” Vogel’s frown was reflected in the glossy curve of the bottle. He reached for a memo pad. “Is that what you want me to tell our clients?”
“No . . . maybe. I don’t know.” He felt confused, as though his boss had sandbagged him as soon as he had walked into the plush office. “Let me think about it.” Maybe other Newcomers would like this stuff; right now he honestly couldn’t tell. His head was so full of the merry-go-round-like chase of his worries, he couldn’t get any vibrations from the bottle and its mute contents.
“No problem, Albert; take your time. Want to take it home, sample it later? No? Suit yourself.” With a slight air of disappointment, Vogel slipped the bottle into the cardboard box, then swung back around in his chair. “So then, what can I do for you, Al? That car running all right?” His toothy grin widened. “You don’t need another one already, do you?”
“It’s . . . it’s fine.” Talking about the car made Albert squirm in his own chair; a pang of guilt stabbed through both of his hearts. Everybody here at Precognosis was being so nice to him—this was the second car they had given him, even more wonderful than the first. He knew they must get them free from the people who made them as part of the reimbursement for his market predictions, but still, Vogel could’ve kept the cars for himself rather than passing them on to him. When this last one had shown up at his and May’s new house, with a big red ribbon wrapped around the gleaming metallic body, he had sat down in the middle of the circular driveway and just stared at it, holding his hands out in front of him as though to absorb the heat of some new sun. He didn’t even know what make it was, though he had found an owner’s manual in the glove compartment that he and May had eventually figured out was written all in German. Finding out what each button on the dashboard did was still a matter of trial and error. What else could he tell Vogel? “It goes . . . really fast.” He assumed that there were gears beyond third, but so far he’d been scared to determine that for sure.
“It damn well should,” said Vogel. He laughed, wagging a finger at Albert. “Now don’t you go wrapping yourself around some telephone pole with that machine—you’re too valuable to us. Anyway, if it’s not the company wheels, then what is it you wanted to see me about?”
He could feel his feet swelling with nervousness. There was one advantage to being Tenctonese; nobody could see that sign of his emotional state, not unless it got so bad that the soft leather of his custom-made shoes actually split open.
“Well, I wanted, uh, to talk to you . . . about something new.” It had all seemed straightforward when Captain Grazer had told him—coached him, really—about what to tell Vogel. Now all those words seemed to have drained out of his head, and he had to scrabble around with what was left, like scattered pebbles on a barren field. “I mean . . . a new product. That is, I mean, something that’s not on the market yet.” Albert shrank back in the chair. “So it’s, uh, something new. I mean . . .”
“New things are our business, Al.” Vogel nodded slowly. “That’s what we’re all here for. So which of ours are you referring to? I thought we’d gotten a report from you on everything we had pending. Let’s see . . .” He sorted through the In basket on the desk. “According to what we got here, you nixed the pilot show for that cable sitcom—boy, I sure agree with you on that one; what would be so funny about a wisecracking headcheese, for Christ’s sake?—and you gave a thumbs-up on the new fall colors for the SpotSheen cosmetics.” He winked at Albert. “Sure your wife didn’t help you on that one? Just kidding.” He dropped the report forms into the basket. A puzzled frown appeared on his face. “Except for that new stuff from White Gold that I just showed you, I’m not aware of any other prototypes or mock-ups that we’d have on hand yet. Is this something that Dierdorf brought in?”
“No—” Albert shook his head. “It’s not from one of our clients. It’s, uh, something that I found.” His shoes felt like two vises now. “And that . . . I thought you should see.”
Vogel rose partway from his chair, so he could peer over the desk. “Is that what’s in the shopping bag?”
“This?” Startled, Albert reached down and grabbed the brown paper bag that he had carried into the office with him. He held it to his chest, fighting the impulse to jump up and run with it out to the parking lot. “Uh . . . yes. Yuh-yes, it is.” Think! he shouted at himself inside his head. What had Captain Grazer told him to say? “It’s . . . uh . . . really important. A buh-buh-breakthrough in . . . in . . . in everything.” He couldn’t believe he’d just said that; he rummaged desperately through his scattered thoughts. “In like . . . communication . . . and doing stuff . . .”
“Really?” Vogel looked impressed. “All in that one bag?” He stretched out his hand. “Can I have a look?”
Slowly, Albert peeled the bag away from his chest and gave it to the human who was his boss. He knew there was no turning back now; he’d have to see it through. The only comfort for his guilt-flayed soul was that he was at least keeping his promise to his friend Grazer.
“What is all this?” Vogel had started pulling the various items from the bag. “Tapes?” He peered at the label of one of the cassettes.
“There’s a couple of buh-books in there, too.” Albert pointed down into the bag. “They kinda explain everything.”
Vogel already had one of the volumes in his hand. “Let’s see . . . ‘Grazer Intellinomics Training.’ Sounds . . . interesting.” A doubtful undertone filtered through his voice.
Albert clenched his fists, squeezing them between his legs and the sides of the chair. Now his head felt as though it were about to explode as well. If only he’d been able to talk to George—or if he’d had the courage to tell his wife May what Captain Grazer had asked him to do—then he wouldn’t feel so helpless and alone now. Somebody would have told him what he should do; they might even have told him that bringing Grazer’s tapes and books into the Precognosis offices was the right thing, the best thing for him and everyone else. But he just didn’t know. He was only a zabeet; how could anyone expect him to figure out these things?
“Looks like some kind of motivational program.” With his elbows on the desk, Vogel leafed through the book. “Seems very . . . psychological.” His frown curved deeper. “Not sure I catch some of these terms this fellow uses . . .” With a thumb and forefinger, Vogel pulled on his lower lip, brow creasing. “Grazer . . . Grazer . . . wait a minute.” He glanced up at Albert. “Now I remember. Wasn’t this guy your old boss, back when you were with the police department?”
He nodded dumbly. All was lost; how could he have ever hoped to fool the head of a whole company?
“Well, well, well . . .” Vogel rocked back in his chair, regarding at arm’s length the cover of the book. “That puts everything in a whole new light.”
He had been afraid of that. Inside, his hearts began a slow, tortuous dive towa
rd the pit of his stomach. How was he going to tell May what he had done, and what the inevitable consequences for his sin would be? They’d probably make him give back the car and everything else. Would he and May be able to afford the cramped little studio apartment they used to have? After screwing up like this, he wasn’t likely to get his old broom-pushing job back from Captain Grazer.
“I—I can explain . . .” He couldn’t, but he knew he had to say something. “It was all . . . all . . .” It was all Grazer’s idea—that was what he wanted to say, and it was the truth besides. He would never have come up with the notion by himself, of coming in here and saying all those wonderful things about Captain Grazer’s books and tapes. He didn’t even know what they were about—just listening to one of the tapes had made his head throb with all the strange words and ideas—and he had still wound up telling poor Mr. Vogel all those lies. His new boss, who had trusted him. He deserved to be fired.
The words failed him. Even now, he couldn’t betray his old friend.
“There’s nothing to explain, Albert.”
“No . . . I guess not . . .”
Vogel held the book up, higher than his head. “This is wonderful!”
“Wuh-what?” Albert gazed at the human in astonishment.
“It’s a whole program, isn’t it?” Vogel pawed excitedly through the tapes spread out on his desk. “It’s a package—that’s great!”
“What do you mean?”
Vogel spread his hands wide above the GIT materials. “The marketing, and the merchandising potential—it’s all built in. I see it all now—this Grazer’s a genius. It all links up. A person buys the first tape, or reads the book, and he’s in for the whole ride. He’ll buy them all. And then of course there’ll be spin-offs—more books and tapes, advanced courses in GIT, a lecture series—this guy comes across pretty good behind a microphone, I bet—seminars, a TV series—public broadcasting stations go for this kind of stuff like you wouldn’t believe.” Vogel shook his head slowly in admiration. “This . . . this is a franchise that’s worth a fortune.” He started to reach for the phone on the desk. “Tell you what. I’m going to get on the line to that cable network we’ve done so much work for, and give them some idea of what we’ve got here. The conglomerate that they’re a part of also has a major publishing division.” He excitedly waved the phone around. “Hell, if they don’t go for it, we’ll start up our own publishing company to get this out on the market!”
Albert hunched in the chair, as though Vogel were about to spring the lever of a giant trap. “But . . . but how do you know if it’s any good?”
“Pardon me?” Phone in hand, Vogel gazed blankly at Albert for a moment, then radiated a beatific smile. “Albert,” he said softly, “come on. How do I know? Because you brought it to me. Your track record for predictions is up in the high ninety-nines right now; you haven’t made a duff call in months. There isn’t much in life that could be more of a sure thing than this. Maybe what you got has started to rub off on me—I can feel this one, myself.” Vogel shrugged. “Hey, and besides—this Grazer fellow’s got to have something on the ball, right? He’s the one who first figured out how bright you really are, what kind of talent you have, started you cracking those cases for the police. So he’s no slouch, the way I see it.” He punched buttons on the phone, then leaned back in his chair. “Trust me, Al. This is going to be great.”
Keeping his silence, Albert watched his boss. In his head, a new set of realizations had begun to blossom. He wasn’t going to be fired for having come in here and telling a bunch of lies to Vogel He had pulled it off, at least for now; Vogel had believed everything he had said, just the way Captain Grazer had told him it would happen . . .
And that meant—it was something he would have to think about for a long time—that Mr. Vogel wasn’t any smarter than he was. Not really; not in the way that mattered. Or he would’ve known, thought Albert. That I was lying to him.
Maybe nobody was smarter than he was. Or to put it another way, maybe there was nobody, human or Tenctonese, who was smart at all.
It was a realization that didn’t make him feel any better. He sank back into the chair’s depths, seeking shelter from the cold wind that was already stripping away the familiar lineaments of the world.
As they strode down the corridor, their footsteps ringing off the drab institutional walls, he turned to his partner and said, “Look—you’ve really got to help me along with this one. Okay? I really need you, pal”
Sikes watched for the effect his words had on his partner. Shit, he thought in disgust. George’s face remained a wall as impenetrable as those of the women’s prison surrounding them. Earth to friggin’ George Francisco—wake up! He felt the anger rising in his throat. Doesn’t hear a word I say. Still off on his own trip, whatever the hell that is.
When they were a couple of yards away from the interview room, Sikes suddenly wheeled around, slamming the butts of his palms into the other man’s shoulders, hard enough to rock George back a step.
“Matt—” Startled, George blinked wide-eyed at him. “What . . . what’s wrong . . .”
“Don’t give me that crap.” Sikes leaned right into his partner’s face. He kept his voice low, but let the words rip with fury. “You wanna veg out while we’re rolling along in the squad car, fine; I can live without your sparkling conversation. But so help me, if you space out on me while we’re in that room and I’m trying to crack that Bryant bitch open, I promise you I’m gonna go upside your head so hard it’ll make your spots fly. You’ll look like an egg by the time I get done with you.” He took a step back. “Got me?”
He expected—even hoped for—some kind of a reply, for the Newcomer detective to defend himself. Or better yet, a full-out argument, anything to get George’s blood pumping. But instead, George just slowly nodded his head.
“Yes, of course, Matt . . .” The voice was scarcely more than a whisper. “Whatever you say . . .”
“Aw, man . . .” Sikes turned away. “I give up.” He could see that he would have to carry this whole show by himself.
Darlene Bryant was waiting for them inside the interview room. She sat behind a plain wooden table, idly toying with the pack of cigarettes in front of her. One eyebrow—significantly less glossy and artistic than Sikes remembered from before—arched as she glanced round at the two police detectives. “My gentlemen callers seem to have arrived,” she drawled to the prison matron standing beside the door leading back toward the cell blocks. “I’m sure they won’t mind if you excuse yourself now.”
“Yeah, don’t worry.” Sikes nodded to the matron. “If she gives us any trouble, we’ll slap her around a couple of times before we give her back to you.”
“Pity my attorneys couldn’t have heard that remark.” She glanced over one shoulder as the matron withdrew, the heavy steel door closing behind her. A tomblike silence settled over the tiny space and the three figures—two human and one Tenctonese—that it contained. “I’m sure they’d find that attitude very interesting. And profitable.”
“Good thing they’re not here,” said Sikes. He and George pulled back the two chairs on their side of the table and sat down. “I’m surprised you didn’t have ’em lined up outside like a wall for us to get over.”
“Don’t indulge in too much self-congratulation.” Bryant slid a cigarette from the pack and lit it, then tucked the lighter back into the breast pocket of her faded, ill-fitting overalls. “I told my legal staff to ease up—just for a little bit, that is. Just so you could come in and talk with me.”
Sikes glanced over at George and saw his partner’s nose wrinkling.
“Must you?” George fanned the drift of cigarette smoke away from his face. “There’s not much ventilation here.”
“Precisely.” Bryant indulged in a malicious smile. “I don’t enjoy being at such close quarters with a parasite such as yourself, Detective Francisco. So you’ll have to excuse me if I engage in a little—shall we say—fumigation.” She fl
icked ash from the tip of the cigarette. “So get used to it.”
Glad something brought him around, thought Sikes. He turned back toward Bryant, studying her as though looking for pressure points, some way of cracking her steel facade. She looked even tougher and more determined than when he had encountered her before, on the outs. That was to be expected; a lock-up either hardened people or broke them. He would have put money on Bryant being one of those who didn’t break. With the aging beauty queen veneer stripped from her like a discarded chrysalis, she had emerged as a laser-eyed, toxic creature.
“I always heard smoking was bad for a woman’s looks.”
She turned her narrow gaze toward Sikes. Her hatred was a palpable force, unrelieved when she let a corner of her smile return. “Is that why you came here? To get beauty tips for your little slag girlfriend?” Bryant folded her arms, one hand holding the smoke aloft. “Has her ‘delicate condition’ made her that ugly in your eyes?” She shook her head in mock sadness. “And all this time I thought you really loved her. Everyone to his own taste, and that sort of thing.”
Sikes felt his face tighten. “What do you know about her?”
“Oh please, Detective Sikes—must we engage in all these little pretenses? As if you would have any other reason for pestering away over the last six months or more to get in here. And as if it were possible to keep something like this a secret from me.” The angle of her smile showed that she was relishing every word she spoke. “My followers and I have sources of information that you can’t even begin to imagine. Isn’t that why you wanted to see me? To find out what I know?” Another flick of ash. “Good thing you took the slag to the hospital. Getting close to the delivery date, aren’t we? Perhaps I could arrange to have a nice little floral arrangement sent over.”