Maggie looked at the Marshal, but the old man just shrugged. Wiggler stepped toward them, and a blind black man cradling a guitar appeared from behind a water tank like a patch of shade come to life. The man was old but spry—with a bent back and long supple limbs. He wore sunglasses, a damp white shirt, suspenders, shiny black pin-striped pants, and a pearl-gray Stetson Whippet perched on his head, which had a dusting of white hair.
“Blind Lemon Jackson Jefferson Johnson Jones!” Clearfather exclaimed.
“Blind Lemon Five,” Wiggler replied. “There have been upgrades.”
The Marshal’s mouth dropped. This was no droid—this was a living man. Surely.
“You mean he plays better?” Clearfather asked.
“Allas learnin’ to play better,” the black man replied, looking directly at Clearfather’s face. Then he sniffed in Maggie’s direction and began moaning and strumming, “You can squeeze my lemon till the juice runs down my leg.” Clearfather noticed that Maggie’s finger seemed to be itching on the trigger of the shotgun. Fortunately the Marshal was engrossed in the guitar work.
“He’s got six fingers! On each hand!”
“Yes,” Wiggler replied. “I told you there’d been improvements. They’re longer and stronger and more flexible than normal, and linked to a very edgy micromedia effector unit. He’s also got an audiographic memory and perfect pitch. At first I thought it was cheating—but then I thought what the hell.”
“But his skin!” the Marshal marveled.
“You wouldn’t get the right acoustics otherwise. You need the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.”
“You mean he’s real?” the Marshal gawked.
“What are those words of Pindar’s? ‘A dream about a shadow is man.’ He’s as real as you are—physically and philosophically. In fact, much of the nervous system was designed by an AI that I humbly believe is more sophisticated than you are, called Savoir Faire.”
“Savoir Faire?”
“You probably don’t remember Klondike Cat,” Wiggler squinted. “Klondike Cat was a Canadian Mountie. His nemesis was a sneaky little Canuck mouse named Savoir Faire. Perverse as I am, I always took the side of the villain. At the end of every episode Klondike would insist, ‘I always get my mouse,’ although in fact SF would always escape. Whistling on the wind, we’d hear his catchcry, Savoir Faire ees everywhair!
“My Savoir Faire did the intricate nerve mapping for this Lemon. I cannibalized some of the humor from BL Two—and kicked in a fully organic Epiphany processor and a Mnemosyne backup. Then for the fine cellcraft, which I find tedious, I used EVE—a biodesign system I invented that’s demonstrated excellent evolution of its own. Throughout new creature development it operates as an incubatory consultant. In earlier models I’d grown the eyes and then blinded them, or set in place a targeted malfunction with a time delay. The new EVE suggested eliminating the eyes right from the start. But I also beefed up the olfactory and auditory facilities and added a couple more input channels and an onboard magnetic navigation system incorporating ultrasonic air transducers for proximity sensing and obstacle avoidance—”
“Mister!” Maggie screamed and fired the shotgun into the air.
“Huh? Oh. So sorry,” Wiggler fidgeted. “Forgive me.”
Clearfather glanced up as the blast echoed between the walls—and saw a couple of sleepy saber-toothed tigers emerge from a cavern. He heard that other sound, too. He was certain now that hidden eyes were watching them.
A mariachi band ran past, pursued by a naked woman on a horse.
“What was that?” the Marshal asked.
“Just a stray thought,” Wiggler shrugged. “Milton said the mind is its own place. So make it a fun place! But the beasts are yet to come. Come, you can have showers and then we’ll have a nice morning—tea!”
He clapped his hands and the earth began to tremble—and from around a bend of volcanic ash there appeared two enormous creatures with the leathery gray hides of rhinos and the extended necks of giraffes. They stood more than fifteen feet at the shoulder and must’ve weighed many tons. Each was saddled with a miniature pavilion. In unison the giants knelt and Wiggler assisted Blind Lemon, gesturing for Clearfather to join him, while the Marshal and Maggie mounted the second beast.
“Are these—dine-o-sores?” Maggie was at last able to inquire—with an expression on her face that helped distract the Marshal from his own alarm.
“They’re indricotheres,” Wiggler replied. “From the Oligocene period. I’ve always found dinosaurs clichéd unless they’re miniaturized. I’m more of a giant mammal man.”
The sheer bulk of the animals was awesome, the plodding movement hypnotic. The procession arrived at a fork and had to go single file as they wound through a separate canyon. Beside them in places, either pools of rain and river remained or springs had flooded eroded indentations. The deeper bodies teemed with life—enormous wading birds and bizarre hippopotamus-like animals with elephantine trunks. Above, Clearfather caught a glimpse of the Harijans, negotiating a rope bridge. Their movements and alertness made him think of hunters.
“Basic atavism,” Wiggler waved, indicating a high-walled enclosure. In one section was a gigantic carnivorous terror bird from the Eocene, looking sullen and bored. In another, two glyptodonts—massive armadillos with spiked tails—engaged in ponderous combat. “I much prefer chimeralogy.”
“What’s that?” Clearfather asked.
“Making up my own creatures—or executing difficult composite forms. The physiology and of course the psychology is far more fulfilling.”
Clearfather surveyed the tunneled walls and again felt the presence of unseen eyes. None of this was what he’d imagined he’d find in South Dakota. He couldn’t think where he’d expect to find it—except in someone else’s dreams.
They came to a compound of Cyclone fencing and concertina wire, inside which they observed a tribe of rhesus monkeys lying among discarded circuit boards and DC motors. Many of the animals had open sores as if they’d been exposed to an aggressive defoliant. Four scruffy chimps—one without an eye, and another with a partially amputated arm—jabbered over a game played with ESP cards and a collection of trinkets—Cracker Jack prizes, Secret Squadron decoder rings, and what looked like little glow-in-the-dark green skulls. Leaning against a salt dome, like the headman of a village, sat a large proboscis monkey swathed in dirty bandages. On his head he wore a stained golf hat from the Bob Hope Desert Classic. He was seated astride a cracked porcelain toilet, wearing an oxygen mask linked by a rubber hose to a large cylinder of gas. Every few moments the withered fingers would open the valve and the creature would get a blast.
“Whot’s wrong with ’em all?” Maggie gawked.
“Various experiments in accelerated learning and transitional development.”
Stone-still lorrises stared down from a jungle gym like electroshock patients.
“Look at that!” the Marshal gasped, pointing to emaciated macaques shooting each other with tranquilizer darts.
“Why don’t you put them out of their misery?” Clearfather asked.
“How in-Hanuman, eh?” Wiggler answered. “Well, you could—if you were being very narrow-minded—say that what I’m interested in is their misery—what forms it takes. The experiment is ongoing. New data is always being gleaned. Just remember that. We exist to create new data—a provisional meaning of life.”
The indricotheres lumbered on across a stream, which flowed into a nest of caves inhabited by things better left unsaid.
They came in sight of a building constructed in a Tinkertoy shape. Wiggler made a clicking sound that caused the beasts to kneel. “Come,” he said, dismounting. “Nothing here will harm you—at least not while I’m along.”
Inside, they found a larger laboratory than the one they’d seen before, where there appeared to be several autopsies in progress. A library of data crystals bore titles of scientific studies ranging from The Initiation of Mating Foll
owing Removal of the Frontal Lobes to Microelectrical Bionics. Across the room in a full-sized aquarium tank they saw a sockeye salmon as big as a dolphin.
“What are those things growing there?” the Marshal asked.
“Pineal glands. According to Descartes, the pineal gland is the point of contact between the body and the soul,” their unusual guide remarked.
“Yoo musta had a royally fucked-up childhood,” Maggie proclaimed.
“On the contrary, my dear, I’m continuing to enjoy it.”
“Howa yoo’d git doin’ all this?”
“I’m primarily self-taught,” answered Wiggler. “Although I’ve had many accidental instructors. Actually, you know, you look like a younger, prettier version of one of the few teachers whose advice has stuck with me over the years.”
“Choose something like a star?” the Marshal suggested caustically.
“N-no,” Wiggler snipped. “We were making puppets for the Christmas pageant, and she said, ‘Try to make your puppets’ voices fit their characters and don’t think that just because they’re puppets, they must all speak in squeaky voices.’ The subtlety of that remark is still sinking in.”
He pointed to a series of tall curtained cylinders. The curtains opened and the cylinders were illuminated to reveal a naked body of uncertain sexuality in each.
“Shee-it!” Maggie sighed, peering closely.
“This . . . is . . . sick!” cringed the Marshal.
“Oh, don’t be so uptight!” Wiggler chided. “You’re bringing vertebrate/mammalian prejudices to bear. Our mollusk and annelid friends know all about the values of hermaphroditism, as do fish. Heretofore, humans have been obsessed with sexual preferences and appearances—a crude nip and tuck or the odd intramuscular injection of progesterone. What we’re looking at here is the possibility of changing one’s sexual options. Creative endocrinology.”
“But why would anyone do that?” asked the Marshal, shifting the dented Winchester from hand to hand.
“Variety . . . curiosity,” Wiggler answered. “You’ve heard the admonition to men to bring out their feminine side? Are we not women? Hah! Men actually discover the clitoris when they have one themselves, believe me.”
“That’s awful!” the Marshal barked.
“A pot that complains of having handles,” scoffed Wiggler. “I’ve simply moved or added some handles. But I should’ve waited until after you’ve been refreshed. I’m sorry. You’ll find showers and fresh clothes in there—” He pointed to another curtain. “—then we’ll start celebrating. Everyone’s dying to meet you!”
“I hope that’s not literally true,” the Marshall whistled.
Wiggler gave him a wilting smile and then glanced at Maggie, who was staring out the window, her face hardened into a mask of near-terminal distress.
“Wittgenstein!” Wiggler bellowed. “There you are!”
CHAPTER 8
A Badlands Tea Party
Wittgenstein would’ve been a more or less ordinary porcupine had he not been the size of a shuttle bus. Long after the drones had sedated and transported the creature—a feat that required the collaboration of the indricotheres and a mobile gantry robot—Maggie was still experiencing what Wiggler referred to as her “Wild Surmise.” It took all the Marshal’s concentration and persistence to get her through the formalities of showering and dressing—and it was only when she realized that the “old grubber” had seen her naked (and scrubbed her, too) that she finally broke out of her trance and began complaining normally again.
Clearfather, meanwhile, felt as though he’d circled around to where the riddles began, not ended. This sentiment was reinforced when, after showering, and dressed in simple white Nehru suits, they returned to the ghost town to find the buildings neatly repaired and freshly painted; the Red Cloud Hotel couldn’t have looked more opulent or inviting. A long table was laid out in the street beneath the WELCOME HOME banner, covered in silver teapots and dishes of sweets and savories. Joining the banner strung across the street were two chains of bright piñatas. Beside the table a stage had been set up, draped in red, white, and blue bunting, with enough seats for a large band, plus a grand piano. Maggie’s place was marked with a live dimetrodon and a stegosaurus that could fit on her tea saucer (although neither had any intention of remaining there—the vegetarian stegosaurus attacking the cheese logs, the sail-finned carnivore opting for the pigs-in-a-blanket). Marking the Marshal’s seat was a stagecoach the size of the sugar bowl. Clearfather’s place was empty—until he discovered a long almost transparent object like the one he’d found among the Gifts in Dustdevil. His teaspoon commemorated the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo in 1901.
Wiggler offered them tea and snacks but seemed too wound up to partake of anything himself—and, as the visitors were so filled with questions and disbelief, the miniature dinosaurs had a field day with the macaroons.
As he sat, trying to formulate which question to ask first, Clearfather noticed that they’d been joined by an immense and frightful bear-like creature dressed in a little girl’s party dress, with its own table with separate cups and saucers.
“Uh, this is CJ . . . as in Jane . . . as in Calamity Jane.”
“W-w-whot . . . is she?” Maggie gulped.
“She’s a bit shy,” Wiggler answered.
“Noa . . . I mean . . .”
“She’s a megatherium—a giant ground sloth. Downsized of course. Do you know how difficult it is to housebreak a sloth?”
“What’s she doing?” Clearfather asked after watching her awhile.
“She’s having her own tea party,” Wiggler said. “An imaginary tea party.”
“I had them,” Maggie said. “Bee-fore I started boozin’.”
“You’re welcome to join her. She’d love a playmate!”
Maggie choked. “Mister, I ain’t sittin’ with noa hairy-ass freak!”
Calamity Jane let out a squeal of dismay and batted her tea set to smithereens.
“Ms. Kane,” Wiggler replied with simmering calm. “I appreciate that the consciousness-raising experience you’re undergoing is unsettling—but see what you’ve done. A moment ago CJ was playing happily—sharing in our presence and enjoying her own fantasy at the same time, which is no mean feat. You’ve hurt her feelings, Ms. Kane. You’ve been cruel—not to further an end or identify a boundary—but out of pure thoughtlessness.”
“I’m . . . sorry,” Maggie sniffed, chastened by the moping animal as much as she was frightened by the commanding tone of Wiggler’s voice.
“So cruelty’s all right if it’s part of an experiment?” the Marshal gibed.
“Knowledge never comes without a price,” Wiggler countered. “The squalor you witnessed earlier has made other kinds of progress possible. That’s what progress is—squalor striving—grace stumbling.”
“Can’t make an omelet without breakin’ some eggs, eh?”
“I’m not going to bandy truisms, Marshal. There’s nothing easier than making assumptions. When you’re willing to examine yours, I’ll gladly debate with you.”
“Doo yoo think—shee’d still like—to play with mee?” Maggie whimpered.
“She’d love to,” Wiggler said. “I confess she’s a bit spoiled but she never holds a grudge—and she is a lot of fun. But if you play hopscotch, give her plenty of room, and I’d recommend letting her win. If you play dolls, don’t let her pull the heads off. She eats them and they clog her up. Oh, and she loves Nancy Drew mysteries. Maybe you could read to her. But don’t be too long! The entertainment starts soon!”
Maggie got up and followed the sloth, which was still almost twice her size. The Marshal sat looking pensive.
“You said earlier . . . you know . . . about my father?” the old actor said at last.
“I know about your sadness and your curiosity about what happened to him.”
“How do you know that?”
“The simple answer is that you broadcast it. How I’m able to receive the transmission
requires a dense technical explanation.”
“Is it that obvious? Even after all these years?”
“We most quickly reveal that which we try to conceal—especially from ourselves. You can’t outgrow a ghost, Marshal.”
“So—do you know—what happened to him?”
“He’s in hiding.”
“For God’s sake, where?”
“On an island . . . in the shadow of a roller coaster. Inside you.”
“Shit!” groaned the Marshal. “I’ve left that island!”
“Yes, and you’ve willed it to your son,” Wiggler replied.
“Goddamn it, I have not! My son doesn’t need me—he’s very successful!”
“As you wish.”
“Christ. What do you know? You’re just playing mind games with me!”
“Well, then, it’s time to play a new game. Cigar?”
“I only smoke marijuana,” the Marshal grumbled.
“And what about you?” Wiggler asked Clearfather—producing one of the mysterious transparent lengths like the one at his setting.
Clearfather picked his up. “Is that what this is?”
“You know what they say about guys who smoke big cigars,” the Marshal snubbed.
Wiggler’s became visible and lit at the same time, and he sat back blowing smoke rings. “Sometimes a cigar is just a metaphor. But what could be more potent, eh?”
“What?” said Clearfather, picking up his, which also became visible and lit.
“This—is a metaphorical cigar,” Wiggler said. “When I finish smoking it, it’s there to be smoked again. Wherever I put it I can always find it.”
“You’re saying—the cigar is an idea?”
“You say that with condescension,” Wiggler replied. “What were you expecting—advanced physics? An exotic new form of energy perhaps?”
“Well . . . yes,” Clearfather answered. “I was.”
“Ideas are energy. And very exotic forms at that. The whole science of physics is a case in point.”
Clearfather tossed his cigar away—and found it again, semitransparent and back on the table.
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