“Noisy in here, isn’t it? Do you release the body? I’ll have it taken downtown.”
“Hand me a form nine-oh-four and I’ll chop it. Just keep the meat out of sight of our guests. Grand Hotel Augustus does not have guests dying on its premises.”
“Dr. Ridpath, I was handling such things discreetly before you slid through that diploma mill.”
“I’m sure you were, Adolf. Lawn ball later?”
“Thank you, Eric. Yes.”
“And dinner after; Zenobia will be expecting you. I’ll pick you up at the morgue.”
“Oh, I’m sorry! I’m taking my assistant to the Mayor’s Orgy.”
“No fuss. Zenobia would never miss the first big party of Fiesta; we’ll all go together. So bring her with you.”
“Him, not ‘her.’”
“Pardon my raised eyebrows; I thought you had sworn off. Very well; bring him.”
“Eric, Don’t you find it depressing to be so cynical? He’s a satyr, not a goose.”
“So much the better. With Fiesta starting at sundown Zenobia will welcome any gallant indecency he offers her, as long as he does not break her bones.”
This silly chatter had told me one thing: I was not in New Liverpool. New Liverpool does not celebrate Fiesta—and this local festival sounded like Fasching in Munich combined with Carnival in Rio, with a Brixton riot thrown in. So, not New Liverpool. What city, what planet, what year, and what universe remained to be seen. Then I would have to see what could be done about my predicament. Clothes. Money. Status. Then, how to get home. But I was not worried. As long as the body is warm and the bowels move regularly no problem can be other than minor and temporary.
The two doctors were still sneering at each other when I suddenly realized that I had heard not one word of Galacta. Not even Spanglish. They were speaking English, almost the harsh accent of my girlhood, with idiom and vocabulary close to that of my native Missouri.
Maureen, this is ridiculous.
While flunkies were getting ready to move the body (disguised as a nameless something draped in dust covers) the medical examiner (coroner?) got a signed release from the house physician, and both started to leave. I stopped the latter. “Dr. Ridpath!”
“Yes? What is it, Miss?”
“I’m Maureen Johnson Long. You are on the staff of the hotel, are you not?”
“In a manner of speaking. I have my offices here and am available as house physician when needed. Do you wish to see me professionally? I’m in a hurry.”
“Just one quick question, Doctor. How does one get the attention of a flesh and blood human being on the staff of this hotel? I can’t seem to raise anyone but moronic robots—and I’m stranded here with no clothes and no money.”
He shrugged. “Someone is certain to show up before long, once I report that Judge Hardacres is dead. Are you worried about your fee? Why don’t you call the talent agency that sent you to him? The judge probably had a running account with them.”
“Oh! Doctor, I’m not a prostitute. Although I suppose it does look like it.”
He cocked his left brow so high that it disturbed the tilt of his toupée, and changed the subject. “You have a beautiful pussy.”
I assumed that he was speaking of my feline companion, who is a most beautiful pussy—a flame-colored tomcat (just the color of my hair) in a striking tiger pattern. He has been much admired in several universes. “Thank you, sir. His name is Pixel and he is a much-traveled cat. Pixel, this is Dr. Ridpath.”
The doctor put out a finger close to the little pink nose. “Howdy, Pixel.”
Pixel was helpful. (Sometimes he is not—a cat of firm opinions.) He sniffed the proffered finger, then licked it.
The doctor smiled indulgently, then withdrew his finger when Pixel decided that the ritual kiss had gone on long enough. “He’s a fine boy, that one. Where did you find him?”
“On Tertius.”
“Where’s Ontershus? Canada? Mmm, you say you have a money problem. What’ll you take for Pixel, cash in hand? My little girl would love him.”
(I didn’t swindle him. I could have but I didn’t. Pixel can’t be sold—he can’t stay sold—because he can’t be locked up. For him, stone walls do not a prison make.) “Oh, I’m sorry! I can’t sell him; he’s not mine. He’s a member of the family of my grandson—one of my grandsons—and his wife. But Colin and Hazel would never sell him. They can’t sell him; they don’t own him. No one owns him; Pixel is a free citizen.”
“So? Then perhaps I can bribe him. How about it, Pixel? Lots of horse liver, fresh fish, cat nibbles, all you want. Plenty of friendly girl cats around and we’ll leave your spark plugs right where they are. Well?”
Pixel gave the restless wiggle that means “Let me down,” so I did. He sniffed the doctors legs, then brushed against him. “Nnnow?” he inquired.
Dr. Ridpath said to me, “You should have accepted my offer. I seem to have acquired a cat.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it, Doctor. Pixel likes to travel but he always comes back to my grandson Colin. Colonel Colin Campbell. And his wife Hazel.”
For the first time Dr. Ridpath really looked at me. “‘Grandson.’ ‘Colonel.’ Miss, you’re hallucinating.”
(I suddenly realized how it looked to him. Before I left Tertius, Ishtar had given me a booster treatment—it had been fifty-two years—and Galahad had given me a cosmetic refresher and had overdone it. Galahad likes ’em young, especially redheads—he keeps my twin daughters permanent teenagers, and now we three look like triplets. Galahad cheats. Except for Theodore, Galahad is my favorite husband, but I shan’t let anyone find out.)
“Yes, I must be hallucinating,” I agreed. “I don’t know where I am, I don’t know what day this is, I don’t know what became of my clothes or my money or my purse, and I don’t know how I got here…save that I was in an irrelevancy bus for New Liverpool and there was an accident of some sort. If Pixel were not still with me, I would wonder if I were me.”
Dr. Ridpath reached down; Pixel allowed himself to be picked up. “What was that bus you mentioned?”
“A Burroughs shifter. I was on Tellus Tertius at Boondock on time line two at Galactic year 2149, or Gregorian 4368 if you like that better. I was scheduled for New Liverpool in time line two, where I was to base for a field trip. But something went wrong.”
“Ah, so. Hmm. And you have a grandson who is a colonel?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how old are you?”
“That depends on how you count it, Doctor. I was born on Earth in time line two on the Fourth of July, 1882. I lived there until 1982, one century minus two weeks, whereupon I moved to Tertius and was rejuvenated. That was fifty-two years ago by my personal calendar. I’ve had a booster just recently, which made me younger than I should be—I prefer to be mature rather than girlish. But I do have grandchildren, lots of them.”
“Interesting. Will you come down to my office with me?”
“You think I’m out of my head.”
He was not quick to answer. “Let me put it this way. One of us is hallucinating. Tests may show which one. Besides that, I have an exceptionally cynical office nurse who can, without tests, almost certainly spot which one of us has slipped his clutch. Will you come?”
“Yes, certainly. And thank you, sir. But I’ve got to find some clothes first. I can’t very well leave this room until I do.” (I wasn’t certain that this was true. That crowd that had just left obviously did not have the attitudes on “indecent exposure” that were commonplace in Missouri when I was born. On the other hand, where I now lived on Tertius nudity at home was unremarkable and it didn’t cause any excitement even in the most public places—like overalls at a wedding: unusual but nothing to stare at.)
“Oh. But Festival is about to start.”
“‘Festival’? Doctor, I’m a stranger in a strange land; that is what I’ve been trying to say.”
“Uh—Our biggest holiday is about to start. Starts at sundown,
theoretically, but there are many who jump the gun. By now the boulevard out front will have quite a percentage of naked people, already drunk and looking for partners.”
“Partners for what?” I tried to sound innocent. I’m not much for orgies. All those knees and elbows—
“What do you think? It’s a fertility rite, my dear girl, to insure fat crops. And fat bellies, for that matter. By now, any virgins left in this fair city are locked up.” He added, “But you won’t be bothered simply going with me to my office…and I promise I’ll find you some sort of clothing. A coverall. A nurse’s uniform. Something. Does that suit you?”
“Thank you, Doctor. Yes!”
“If I were you and I was still jumpy, I would look for a big beach towel in that bathroom, and make a caftan out of it. If you can do it in three minutes. Don’t dilly-dally, dolly; I’ve got to get back to the grind.”
“Yessir!” I hurried into the bathroom.
It really was a bathroom, not a refresher. When I had searched the suite for clothing, I had noticed a stack of Turkish towels in there. Now I looked more closely and spotted two that bulged fat in that stack. I worked one out and unfolded it. Eureka! A towel fit for a rich South American, one at least six feet long and three feet wide. A razor blade from the medicine chest placed a slit big enough for my head spang down the center. Now to find something, anything, to tie around my waist.
While I was doing this, a human head appeared in front of—in place of, rather—the hair dryer. A head female and rather pretty. No body. During my first century this would have made me jumpy. Today I’m used to realistic holos.
“I’ve been trying to catch you alone,” the head said in an organlike baritone. “I speak for the Committee for Aesthetic Deletions. We seem to have caused you some inconvenience. For that we are truly sorry.”
“You should be! What became of that baby?”
“Never mind that baby. We’ll be in touch.” It flickered.
“Hey! Wait!” But I was talking to the hair dryer.
Dr. Ridpath looked up from scratching Pixel’s chin. “Five minutes and forty seconds.”
“I’m sorry to be late but I was interrupted. A head appeared and spoke to me. Does that happen often around here? Or am I hallucinating again?”
“You really do seem to be a stranger here. That’s a telephone. Like this—Telephone, please!”
A head appeared in a frame that had contained a rather dull still-life, a male head in this case. “Your call, sir?”
“Cancel.” The head blinked out. “Like that?”
“Yes. But a girl.”
“Of course. You’re female and the call reached you in a bathroom, so the computer displayed a head matching your sex. The computer matches lip movements to words…but the visual stays an impersonal animation unless you elect to be seen. Same for the caller.”
“I see. A hologram.”
“Yes. Come along.” He added, “You look quite fetching in that towel but you looked still better in your skin.”
“Thank you.” We went out in the hotel corridor; Pixel cut back and forth in front of us. “Doctor, what is ‘The Committee for Aesthetic Deletions’?”
“Huh?” He sounded surprised. “Assassins. Criminal nihilists. Where did you hear of them?”
“That head I saw in the bathroom. That telephone.” I repeated the call, word for word, I think.
“Hmm. Interesting.” He did not say another word until we reached his office suite, ten stories down on the mezzanine.
We ran across several hotel guests who had “jumped the gun.” Most were naked save for domino masks but several wore full masks—of animals or birds, or abstract fantasy. One couple was dressed most gaudily in nothing but paint. I was glad that I had my terry cloth caftan.
When we reached Dr. Ridpath’s office suite, I hung back in the waiting room while he went on into an inner room, preceded by Pixel. The doctor left the door open; I could hear and see. His office nurse was standing, her back to us, talking “on the telephone”—a talking head. There appeared to be no one else in the suite. Nevertheless I was mildly surprised to find that she had joined the epidemic of skin; she was wearing shoes, minipanties, and a nurse’s cap, and had a white nurse’s uniform over one arm as if caught by the phone while she was undressing. Or changing. She was a tall and slender brunette. I could not see her face.
I heard her say, “I’ll tell him, Doc. Keep your guard up tonight. See you in jail. Bye.” She half turned. “That was Daffy Weisskopf, Boss. He has a preliminary report for you. Cause of death, suffocation. But—get this—stuffed down the old bastard’s throat, before the catsup was poured in, was a plastic envelope with a famous—or infamous—card in it: ‘The Committee for Aesthetic Deletions.’”
“So I figured. Did he say what brand of catsup?”
“Fer cry eye yie!”
“And what are you doing peeling down? Festival doesn’t start for another three hours.”
“Look here, slave driver! See that clock?—ticking off the precious seconds of my life. See what it says? Eleven past five. My contract says that I work until five.”
“It says that you are on duty until I relieve you, but that overtime rate starts at five.”
“There were no patients here and I was changing into my festival costume. Wait till you see it, Boss! It ’ud make a priest blush.”
“I doubt it. We do have a patient and I need your help.”
“Okay, okay! I’ll get back into my Florence Nightingale duds.”
“Don’t bother; it would just waste time. Mrs. Long! Come in, please, and take off your clothes.”
“Yes, sir.” I came in at once, while peeling off that scrounged caftan. I could see what he was doing: a prudent male doctor has a chaperon when examining a female patient; that’s a universal. A multi-universal. If the circumstances happen to supply a chaperon in her skin, so much the better; there need be no time wasted on “angel robes” and other such nonsense. Having helped my father and having stood years of watches in the rejuvenation clinic at Boondock and in the associated hospital I understood the protocol invoked; a nurse in Boondock wears clothes only when the job requires it. Seldom, that is, as the patient is usually not clothed. “But it’s not ‘Mrs. Long,’ Doctor. I am usually called ‘Maureen.’”
“‘Maureen’ it is. This is Dagmar. Roast, meet Alice; Alice, meet Roast. And Pixel, too, Dagmar. He’s the one with the short legs.”
“Howdy, Maureen. Hi, Pixel.”
“Mee-ow.”
“Hi, Dagmar. Sorry to keep you late.”
“De nada, ducks.”
“Dagmar, either I am out of my skull, or Maureen is. Which is it?”
“Couldn’t it be both? I’ve had my doubts about you for a long time, Boss.”
“Understandable. But she really does seem to have lost a chunk of her memory. At least. Plus possible hallucinations. You’ve studied materia medica much more recently than I have; if someone wanted to cause a few hours’ temporary amnesia, what drug would he choose?”
“Huh? Don’t give me your barefoot boy act. Alcohol, of course. But it might be almost anything, the way the kids nowadays eat, drink, snort, smoke, or shoot almost anything that doesn’t shoot back.”
“Not alcohol. Enough alcohol to do that produces a horrible hangover, with halitosis, twitches and shakes, and bloodshot eyes. But look at her—clear eyes, healthy as a horse, and innocent as a pup in the clean laundry. Pixel! Stay out of that! So what do we look for?”
“I dunno; let’s operate and find out. Urine sample. Blood sample. Saliva, too?”
“Certainly. And sweat, if you can find enough.”
“Vaginal specimen?”
“Yes.”
“Wait,” I objected. “If you intend to poke around inside me, I want a chance to douche and wash.”
“Not bleedin’ likely, ducks,” Dagmar answered gently. “What we need is whatever is in there now…not after you’ve washed your sins away. Don’t argue; I wouldn??
?t want to break your arm.”
I shut up. I do indeed want to smell good, or not smell at all, when being examined. But as a doctor’s daughter (and a therapist myself) I knew that what Dagmar said made sense…since they were looking for drugs. I didn’t expect that they would find any…but they might; I certainly was missing some hours. Days? Anything could have happened.
Dagmar had me pee in a cup and took my blood and saliva, then told me to climb onto the table and into the stirrups. “Shall I do it? Or the Boss? Out of the way, Pixel! And stop that.”
“Either of you.” (A truly considerate nurse. Some female patients can’t stand to be touched down below by females, others are shy with males. Me, I was cured of all such nonsense by my father before I was ten.)
Dagmar came back with a dilator…and I noticed something. Brunette, I said she was. She had remained undressed save for scanty panties—which were not opaque. She should have shown a dark, built-in fig leaf, no?
No. Just skin shade and a hint of the Great Divide.
A woman who shaves or otherwise depilates her pubic curls has a profound interest in recreational sex. My beloved first husband Brian pointed this out to me in the Mauve Decade, circa 1905 Gregorian. I’ve checked Brian’s assertion through a century and a half, endless examples. (I am not counting prepping for surgery or for childbirth.) The ones who did it because they preferred that styling were without exception hearty, healthy, uninhibited hedonists.
Dagmar wasn’t prepped for surgery; she (obviously!) was not about to give birth. No, she was about to take part in a saturnalia. QED.
It made me feel warm toward her. Brian, bless his lecherous soul, would have appreciated her.
By now, in the course of chatting while she took samples, she knew the essentials of my “hallucination,” so she knew that I was a stranger in town. As she was adjusting that damned dilator (I have always detested them, although this one was blood temperature and was being handled with the gentle care that a woman can bring to the task, having been there herself)—while she was busy with this, I asked a question in order to ignore what she was doing. “Dagmar, tell me about this festival.”