“I don’t feel like it,” I said.
“Jesus Christ, Inkswitch, you can’t be rude to company.”
“I don’t know what is wrong with me,” I said. “I don’t think I can make it.”
Miss Pinch went out and shortly came back in. She was carrying a water tumbler full of bubbles. “It’s some of the party champagne,” she said. “Drink it down. A great aphrodisiac.”
I was thirsty. I gulped it all down. It made me feel warm. Not much more alcoholic content than Turkish sira.
I peeked into the other room. Ralph was sitting up, fanning herself with her palm. She smiled at me. “Oh, you kid,” she said. “To think I got to wait three weeks for another one of those is pure torture.”
I went over to her. I felt her arm. The pulse was strong. She was alive!
“You got the wrong girl, Inkswitch,” said Miss Pinch. “Over here. This is Butter.”
I walked around to the other side of the bed. The lesbian wife, Butter, was lying there sort of panting and eyeing me.
The girl said, “I’m no virgin. I let a goat do it to me once up on a farm. It wasn’t much good but he got my maidenhead. So shove away, but I don’t think I’ll (bleep) like Ralph did.”
Miss Pinch laughed.
Candy grinned.
Ralph, watching, began to bob her head knowingly.
Butter screamed and convulsed. Then her eyes rolled straight up into her head and she stiffened out like a poker.
I was staring at blank, sightless eyes in a perfectly still face on a rigid body.
My stomach turned over.
I pulled off and raced away.
I got to the bathroom. I began to throw up in the toilet bowl. I threw up everything I’d eaten for days and still tried.
I collapsed in front of it, still trying from time to time.
Dead eyes!
What was wrong with me?
It must have been the champagne! But no, I’d begun to feel this way when Ralph did that.
Was I going crazy?
Worse—was I, an Apparatus veteran, developing a conscience? Gods forbid.
I examined my immediate past. Due to Prahd’s operation, I had had a sexual surge. That should have made a difference in my mind. Freud would think it would, for his whole theory was that everything was based on sex.
With care I reviewed myself to see if there was any real change in my personality. Bit by bit, I went over past experience with myself.
My motivations didn’t seem to have changed. Money, kill songbirds, put the riffraff in its place.
Mysterious. Comparing past years to present, I had to conclude that my personality had not shifted so much as an id.
I got to thinking about Torpedo Fiaccola. His psychologist had recommended becoming a necrophile. So obviously, from this evidence and much other psychology reading I had done, it was quite a normal thing to have coitus with a corpse. So that could not be the basis of this strange reaction.
I just couldn’t get to the bottom of it at all.
Hours later, it seemed, Miss Pinch came looking for me. I heard myself babble, “Is Butter alive?”
She laughed at me. “You’re not good enough to kill them dead, Inkswitch. They both went home long ago.”
“You’re not fooling me? You didn’t dispose of her corpse somewhere, did you?”
She saw I was serious. And she couldn’t get me out of the bathroom. She phoned the couple and put Butter on the phone.
“Are you a live girl?” I said.
“What’s your opinion, Inkswitch? But man, I’m here to tell you, you were better than the goat.”
“You’re alive, then. You weren’t dead.”
“Hell, you want me to come back, Inkswitch?”
“Give me that phone,” said Pinch, who had had her ear pressed near.
“No, no,” I said. “Put Ralph on.”
She did and I said, “Are you alive, Ralph?”
“Half dead,” said Ralph.
It was the wrong answer. I shoved the phone at Miss Pinch. She said something into the mouthpiece and hung up. Then she said, “Take a shower, Inkswitch. The goat rubbed off on you. We’re waiting.”
I took a shower. I washed and washed and washed, which is very unusual for me.
Miss Pinch finally came into the bathroom again. “For Christ’s sake, Inkswitch, come on!”
She got me out and toweled me and got me into the other room.
“No,” I said. “Wait a moment.” I found my hands were very shaky.
“Look,” I begged, “promise me you’ll keep moving.”
PART FORTY-FOUR
Chapter 5
In the chilly light of dawn, after a bad night of introspection, I decided it was all nonsense. There was nothing wrong with me at all.
I got into the closet with my viewers. And one sight of the Countess Krak through Heller’s viewer returned to me my full resolve.
They were taking him to the airport in the old orange cab. She and Heller were seated in the back. Izzy was hunched up on the front seat looking studiously ahead. Bang-Bang was driving as he always did—like a madman.
Heller and Krak had their arms around each other. She was sort of sniffling. But she said, “I know it’s rough to be apart even for a few days. I’ve just got to steel up to it, that’s all. We’ve got to get this mission finished and get off this planet. I feel it like an ache.”
So there she was, using all her woman’s wiles to rush Heller along and get something done. And she didn’t care a single (bleep) that I’d be killed if Heller succeeded in straightening out the place, for he could only do so by ruining every control point on which Lombar depended.
I was right. She was the one I had to get rid of first. And quick. It was my firm duty to have her shot and I must not waver for a moment.
That put my mind at rest. But something else at once unstabilized it. Heller’s 831 Relayer! (Bleep) Raht! I’d be out of communication like a shot, with Heller in Florida.
I got on the radio. Raht answered in a sleepy voice. “Listen, you lazy (bleep)!” I screamed. “Pay attention to your duties for a change! I’ve had enough of being cut off from seeing what he does. He’s dangerous! Get over to the Empire State Building and get all those gadgets off of that antenna. You’re just leaving them there to spite me! Since you know where it is, smart (bleep), deliver Krak’s and Crobe’s to me here in this apartment right away. Then draw money and a ticket at the office and fly today down to Ochokeechokee, Florida, keep your eye on that man and stay within two hundred miles of him. Repeat this all back quick so I’ll know you’re awake and I’m not talking to a snore.”
He did. I clicked off.
I looked back at the viewers. They were unloading Heller’s bags in the parking lot. Heller tried to help them but Izzy and Bang-Bang pushed him aside and struggled manfully with the big cases.
I got disoriented. I was so used to going in and out of JFK that I didn’t know where they were until I spotted a sign, La Guardia. Ah, domestic flights, of course.
They got up to a line waiting at a counter. Izzy handed Heller a ticket. Heller looked at it. “Hey, what’s this? Pretty Boy Floyd?”
“Bang-Bang said that was your traveling name,” said Izzy. “And listen, you’re not connected to any of those corporations we have there. The contractors think your name is Floyd, too. And I advise you to use war paint on your face so if the Indians jump you, they’ll think you’re one of them.”
“Brilliant thinking, Izzy,” said Heller. “I’ll do just that. Now listen, I don’t think there’s much in the way of telephones down at Ochokeechokee and I may be out in the swamp mostly. So if you call and an alligator answers, hang up.”
“Why?” said Izzy.
“Why?” echoed Heller. “I should think that would be obvious. You might put all the alligators on my trail, too!”
Izzy looked puzzled.
Bang-Bang said, “Izzy, it’s a joke. You know, J-O-K-E, joke, as in oy.”
&
nbsp; “It’s no joke going amongst alligators and Indians,” said Izzy. “You be careful, Mr. Jet. I’m still responsible for you.”
I had a sudden thought. Raht, the idiot, would lose his man for sure. I buzzed hastily on the radio.
“Yes?” said Raht and there was a howl of wind in the microphone.
“Listen, he’s traveling under the name of Pretty Boy Floyd and he’ll be wearing war paint.”
“You almost knocked me off this antenna.”
“Don’t you fall off and break those relayers!” I snarled at him.
“Wait, listen. I don’t have your address, really. Can you talk me in?”
“You can’t soar from there to here!” I snapped. What an idiot. What did he think he was using? A spacetrooper sled? I gave him the address.
I looked back at the viewers. As you could expect, Heller and Krak were off to the side waiting for the plane, and she was crying. Women are always crying when people leave and when people get married. I can understand crying when getting married: that’s an awful tragedy. But not just getting on a plane.
“I feel too bad even to be cross with you about those women,” she was saying.
“Women?”
“That protest at the United Nations. The ones carrying your picture with ‘Pretty Boy’ on it. You use that name on tickets.”
“Oh, honey, I can explain. . . .”
“No, no. You don’t have to. I love you, Jettero. You’re my man and I love you. And I’m being an idiot to stay behind and not go to Florida with you. But I’ve got to do all I can to speed things up and help us get home. And then we can get married and live happily ever after in some civilized place. There’s a nice surprise waiting for us both when we get home. I promised I wouldn’t tell you and I won’t. But hurry and finish up this mission, Jettero. And I’ll do all I can.”
“You sit quietly and wait for me,” said Heller.
“They’re calling your plane,” said the Countess Krak.
She kissed him and cried some more.
Then he was gone.
They saw the plane off from the observation platform and went back to the cab. She was still crying.
Oh, there was no doubt at all left in my mind that she had to be killed. Pushing him, pushing him, egging him on. And all to connect up with Royal proclamations that were forgeries. But that was not the surprise they were going to get.
The Countess Krak would be dead before Heller ever saw her again!
PART FORTY-FOUR
Chapter 6
About half an hour after Candy and Miss Pinch had departed for work, Raht showed up. I let him in. He handed me two sets of units, Crobe’s and Krak’s: they were all scummed up with soot from their long tenure in the weather; I found a rag and started to clean them up.
Raht wandered around the apartment, staring at the clam shells and phallic symbols and sea foam. “Who lives here?” he said. “Some whore?”
I was certainly sick of his insolence. “If you did your duty as well as I do mine,” I raged at him, “we’d get someplace. And you’re not getting to Florida where you belong!”
“There’s no second plane until noon,” he said. “Place sure stinks of flowers. Smells like a mortuary.”
That did it. “Get out!” I screamed at him and kicked him out the door.
Having abreacted my hostilities, I felt better. I went to Krak’s viewer to check it. The picture was not quite as good with the activator-receiver in this low place but it was adequate. I got interested in what Krak was doing.
They had returned to the office and Krak was sitting at a white secretarial desk looking in the white pages of the New York telephone directory. Her finger was traveling down a page. She was muttering, “Rocha . . . Rochelle . . . Rock . . . Rocket . . . Rockford . . .” She looked up. She muttered, “A-B-C-D-E-F-E-F . . .”
Bang-Bang’s voice. “Miss Joy.” She looked up. He was sitting at the bar drinking a cup of coffee. “If you tell me what you’re trying to do, maybe I can help.”
“I’m trying to find the personal telephone number of Delbert John Rockecenter.”
“WHAT?” said Bang-Bang, slopping his coffee.
“Well, you needn’t look so surprised,” said Krak. “On a civilized planet, nearly everybody has a communication call sign. How otherwise would you get in touch with them if you had some vital news about their family?”
“Well, Jesus—beggin’ your pardon, ma’am—Delbert John Rockecenter is just about the most important man there is. You don’t just go phoning people like that. Maybe you better tell me what this is all about.” He came over, his coffee forgotten.
“It’s a very simple matter. Look at this geometry plot.” She got the huge sheet Heller had done and spread it open on the desk.
It was, of course, in Voltarian except for the words “Pokantickle Estates, Hairytown, NY,” “Octopus Oil Building” and “Delbert John Rockecenter.” Bang-Bang was twisting his head this way and that, trying to figure out what all these spirals and words were. It would surely have been a Code break except that he didn’t seem to know the Voltarian symbols and letters were more than designs. “Maybe you better explain it,” said Bang-Bang, defeated.
“Well, Delbert John Rockecenter is the emperor,” said the Countess Krak.
“Oh, I see,” said Bang-Bang. “This is some kind of an idea for a new game like Monopoly.”
“No,” said Krak patiently. “It shows Rockecenter controls the planet utterly.”
“Well, hell—beggin’ your pardon, ma’am—that don’t take no fancy diagram to figure out. Everybody knows that. For the last century the Rockecenter family has been taking over from other mobs and now Delbert John owns and controls all the real estate and rackets. I guess ‘emperor’ would be a fancy name like capo di tutti capi, but it really don’t embrace all that Rockecenter really controls. He’s into everybody’s pocket, too. He controls every oil company and I can’t fill up the cab’s tank without helping make Rockecenter rich. I can’t buy an aspirin without helping make Rockecenter rich. I can’t even drink a cup of coffee without stuffing more dough in the Rockecenter coffers. Everybody knows that. So what’s the urgent notice doing on the regimental bulletin board?”
“He’s got a son,” said Krak triumphantly.
“Well, hell, no—beggin’ your pardon, ma’am. He ain’t got no wife and he for sure ain’t got no son. I helped Jet tear the library apart one day just making sure.”
“That’s just it,” said Krak. “Delbert John Rockecenter doesn’t know he has a son.”
“WHAT?”
“Aha! So it surprises you, too,” said the Countess Krak. “But it is a fact. I’ve got it all worked out. Delbert John was playing around—beggin’ your pardon, Bang-Bang—and he got himself a son. But he didn’t know it. He has a lawyer named Bury. So Bury hid the son and hid the fact from Rockecenter and as there is no heir, the empire will then pass straight into the hands of Bury.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Now, Jettero is trying to fix up the planet’s fuel situation. He doesn’t have much time. Rockecenter controls all the fuel. Now, if I were to simply phone up Delbert John Rockecenter and tell him he had a son, he’d be so grateful that he’d rush around and help Jettero and we’d be all finished here and could go home.”
Bang-Bang’s black Italian eyes were nearly popping out of his thin face.
The Countess Krak continued. “And if he doubts it, why, I’ll just go out and find the son and turn him over to his father. Oh, Bang-Bang, Rockecenter would be so grateful he’d put Jettero on center stage with all the spotlights blazing and tell him ‘Jettero, you write the show and we’ll put on any act you want!’ It can’t fail, Bang-Bang. That’s why I stayed behind.”
Bang-Bang had found his voice. “Miss Joy! You can’t go phoning Rockecenter! You can’t go looking for some dumb kid! That mob is a gang of wolves! They’d eat the Virgin Mary, toenails and all, and never even bother to spit out one Ave Maria! In short—beggin’ your
pardon, ma’am—they’re (bleeps), Bury and that Rockecenter crew! Wolves, Miss Joy, WEREWOLVES!”
“Oh, nonsense, Bang-Bang. I’ve read a lot of guidebooks and things on New York, and Rockecenter has been giving away things to the people right and left: fountains, museums. The place is loaded with them.”
“That was just the Rockecenter way of turning off the heat!” said Bang-Bang. “Just a way of buying advertising space when nobody would waste spit on the name!”