Hunt Collins

Tomorrow’s World

This is for my wife and our boys.

Chapter 1

Van Brant pulled Pelazi’s review out of the communication, read it quickly, and then sat back to enjoy a quiet chuckle. He held the review out at arm’s length, read it over again, and nearly choked laughing. It was getting so that Brant could predict just what Pelazi was going to say even before the latest paperback hit the stands. He pulled his chair closer to the desk and punched Lizbeth’s buzzer.

“Yes, sir?” Her voice was soft, well-modulated.

“Honey,” he said, “see if you can get Clark for me, will you?”

“Yes, sir.” She clicked off, and he leaned back, still smiling. He thought of something else and buzzed her again. “Sir?”

“And see if you can get me copies of all the papers carrying reviews of Stolen Desire, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

He sat back again, and shook his head in wonder at Dino Pelazi and all the other Realists. They’d never learn; they’d sit in their high porcelain bathtubs until the Vicarion tide reached up past their nostrils and drowned them. Clark Talbot’s book had been a masterpiece of Vicarion literature. So Pelazi had dipped his pen deep in Realist blood and tom it to pieces with archaic language. Typical. Typical, and doomed, because the Vikes were...

The buzzer sounded and he clicked on. “Yes?”

“I have Mr. Talbot for you, sir. On five.”

“Thanks, Liz.”

He swung his chair around and snapped on five, focusing the picture that blotted the screen. Clark was still in his pajamas, and there was the flabby look of sleep on his rough-hewn features.

He blinked his eyes, and then passed his hand over his face. “Oh, good morning, Van,” he said dully.

Van grinned and Clark winced, licked his lips with a thick tongue, and stared into the screen.

“You see what Pelazi brewed on Stolen?” Van asked.

“No. Is it out yet?” Clark’s face became interested, and the sleep began to flee from his eyes.

“Hit the stands this morning; got it right here.”

“Let me see it,” Clark said. Then he shook his head and put one hand over his eyes. “No, read it to me instead.”

“Big night?”

“Herro-coke. You ever try it?”

“I never mix, Clark.”

“I was blind, Van. It’s really destruction. You should try...” He stopped short, blinked his eyes and asked, “You mean you never mix? Never?”

“My habit is short and straight, and needs no mate.”

Clark shook his head. “Mister, you’re a Ree in disguise. What’d Pelazi chop about?”

“The usual. Pull up a chair.”

“Will I need one?”

“Hell, no. Every sad review Pelazi gives is another million in the bank. You should pray he doesn’t honeymoon you.”

“Fat chance of that. The day Pelazi gives one of my pabacks a favorable review, I’ll eat the book — glue and all.”

“You want to hear this?”

“Chop away, father.”

“There’s the usual heading: title, scribe, pub, and price. You don’t want to hear that.”

“No, go on.”

“Here’s what he says. Quote: ‘Clark Talbot, chief purveyor of vicarious filth in the paperbacks, is represented on the pocket-size stands this morning with a lewd, lascivious, obscene, and pornographic document titled...’ ”

“How was that again?”

“Lewd, lascivious, obscene, and pornographic. Shall I go on?”

“Fire away.”

“Still quoting: ‘...pornographic document titled Stolen Desire. As with all Vicarian literature, and with the entire Vicarian Movement in general, this alleged novel seeks to arouse and to excitate...’ ”

“Excitate?”

“So the man said.”

Clark shrugged. “Excitate,” he said dully. “More, Van.”

“ ‘...to excitate the body, to stimulate the diseased mind, to fabricate an existence completely alien to that surrounding us. Realistically...’ ”

“Oops, here comes the Ree pitch again.”

“ ‘...Realistically, it serves no purpose. It is a symposium of smut, as narcotic as the more tangible drugs the Vicarion Movement has...’ ”

“Stop! Enough. I gather he didn’t care much for it. Wouldn’t you say so, Van?”

“Well, I think he was mildly goofed by it, yes.”

“Yeah,” Clark mumbled.

Brant clicked off before he could say more, and the picture faded. He thought about Pelazi’s review for a few moments, and then he buzzed Lizbeth again. When she came on, he said, “Did you round up those papers, honey?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring them in, will you?”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

He waited for a few seconds until the door slid open and Lizbeth stepped through. She was a small blonde, and the dailies she carried fairly hid her head. She staggered over to the desk, dropped the pile onto its polished top, and then backed away.

She was wearing one of the new see-thru skirts, but in the light she stood in, it was opaque. The skirt was belted around her waist with a narrow red sash. Above the skirt, her flesh was firm and taut, her breasts high. Van stared at them for a moment and asked, “That’s new, isn’t it?”

She looked down at her bare breasts. “Do you like it?”

“I’m not sure.”

“It’s a new shade. It changes with the light, too, the way the skirt does.”

Van walked to the window and pressed the button in the wide sill. The blinds slanted downward quickly, spilling, sunlight into the room, bathing Lizbeth in a warm glow. It caught the skirt in its molten web, turning the material to a thin transparent stuff through which he saw the outline of her legs, the tops of her stockings taut against her thighs. Her breasts had suddenly shifted shades, their undersides shimmering in dazzling silver, their sloping tops a pale fuchsia.

“Do you like it?” she asked again.

“Yes, I think so. It’s effective.” Van turned away and began thumbing through the dailies. As he’d suspected, the Ree columnists had all blasted Clark’s book. That was good; that was fine.

“Honey, I want you to have bigs made out of Pelazi’s Com review, and a few stereos, too. We’ll use the bigs in our regular ad space; and try to get us some time for the stereoshows. The sooner the better. Call Sterling at Triple Press and tell him what we plan. Hint that I’d like him to split the cost. If he sounds goofed, forget it. But try to convince him, Liz; hell, he’ll be sharing in the profits.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You might give him a full view of yourself when you call. Stand in the light.” He looked at the skirt again. “That’s a very effective gizmo.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Has Walt called in yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Put him through as soon as he does, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Had your morning fix?”

“No, sir.”

“Neither have I. What’s your pleasure?”

“Opaine.”

“Another mixer.” Van shook his head. “You’re trading your womb for a tomb, Liz.”

Lizbeth shrugged, and the sudden shift of light turned her breasts a deep blue. “It’s no fix without the tricks, father.”

“Well spoke, but a big joke. Want to join me?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Bring your kit in.”

“There’s someone waiting to see you, sir.”

“Bring your kit in. He can wait.”

“It’s a she, sir.”

“So, she can wait, too.”

“I’m honored, father,” Liz said, smiling.

“Come on, mother, it’s later than you think.”

She turned and walked toward the door, and her skirt turned opaque again, hiding the long curve of her legs. The door slid open as she reached it; Van looked through to the reception room and saw a tall redhead sitting on the couch, her legs crossed. The door slid closed, hiding her from view, and Van walked to the bar and took out his kit. He unsnapped the leather case, opened it, and selected one of the silver vials inside. The chronometer set in the case’s lid told him it was nine twenty-five — and nine-thirty was happy time.

He brought the vial to his desk, checked the gauge to be sure the fix was adequate, and waited for Lizbeth. The door slid open, and she came in carrying a small, red leather woman’s kit.

She laid the kit on the desk, her breasts shading to a pale chartreuse as she stepped into the shadow of the drapes. She snapped open the lid, selected a silver vial, and asked, “Sure you won’t try a mixed fix? Grand kicks, father.”

“I’m straight,” he told her.

“On what?”

“Morph.”

She wrinkled her nose. “It’s your snort, but why make life short?”

The hands of the chronometer nudged nine-thirty. “Time to kick,” Van said. He placed the silver vial on the desk, swabbed his arm with alcohol, and then picked up the hypo again. He traced it along the vein, waiting until the indicator told him he’d score. He glanced at Lizbeth, who had lifted her short skirt and was running the vial along the inside of her thigh, using her legs as most women did, preferring not to mark her arms, which were constantly exposed.

“Well,” Van said, “happy.”

“Here’s to you.”

They pressed the buttons on their vials simultaneously, and Van felt the sharp, slender needle puncture his vein, felt the drug ooze from the vial into his blood stream, felt the vial draw back the drug mixed with blood, pump it into his body, again, in, out, in.

“Destruction,” he murmured, his eyes closed.

“Doom,” Lizbeth answered, her eyes beginning to glaze, her mouth partly open as the drug took hold.

Van released the button, twisted the cap of the vial so that it would clean the needle, and then put it back into the kit, alongside the other empties. Lizbeth snapped shut the lid on her case.

“This is good stuff,” he told her. “Where’d you order it?”

“Swift’s Drugs; we’ve always got it from them.”

“Mm? Well, this is unusually good. You might order more at once. We may get some of the same lot. Incidentally, is everyone in the office supplied?”

She nodded briefly. “Just ordered a new shipment of benzejuana yesterday.”

“Benzejuana? Who’s the square?”

“One of the stock clerks. A Ree convert; he’s breaking in slow.”

“Mother, how slow can you get? Give him a pop of herro tomorrow. That or two weeks’ notice. Groove?”

“I understand,” she said. Her speech was slow, her lids half-covering her natural blue eyes.

“What brews this eve, Liz?”

“With me?”

“Uhm.”

“Nothing.”

“Time we changed that, don’t you think?”

Lizbeth smiled. She made a small movement with her hand. “Whatever you say.”

“Fine. I’ll be by at twenty. Leave your number, yes?”

“Formal?”

Van shrugged. “Lips and breasts,” he said. “Skin tint optional.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Father, I’m dead,” she said gaily.

“Fine. Send the girl in, Liz. Tell her I’ve an appointment at...” He lifted his arm, glanced at his wrist chronometer. “...nine forty-five. Tell her we’ll have to make this short.”

“Grooved,” Liz said, and then she was gone.

Van pulled up his breeches, adjusting them higher on his waist. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror set next to the bar. The breeches were skin-tight, and the new stuff he’d used on his chest had given him a wild crop of hair there. He nodded in satisfaction and sat down behind his desk. In a few moments, the door opened, and the girl entered.

He didn’t need a second look to know she was a Realist. She was wearing a skirt that reached some six inches below her knees, and the blouse she wore had long sleeves and a neckline that hugged the throat. She wore no makeup, her lips a pale pink against the whiteness of her face. The only vivid color about her was in her hair, a lustrous red, and that was gathered at the nape of her neck in a tight bun. She wore flat shoes, of course, de-emphasizing the curve of her legs, and she was constrictingly brassiered and girdled.

“Mr. Brant?” she asked.

“Yes?”

“My name is Lydia Silverstein.”

“Have a seat, won’t you, Miss Silverstein?” He indicated a chair, and thought of what his own name had been before he’d joined the Vikes. John Branoski. Van Brant was a definite improvement.

The girl sat in the chair he offered, crossing her legs, and demurely pulling her skirt down.

“What can I do for you, Miss Silverstein?”

“I’m a writer,” she said.

“I gathered. Most people who come to literary agents are.”

Her green eyes widened slightly, and her lips parted. “Yes. Yes, I suppose they are.” She sucked in a deep breath, the bra harnessing her effectively. “I’ve written some stereoshows.”

“Have you?” Van said solicitously.

“Yes. But I’ve been having trouble getting them aired.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I’m a Ree.”

Van smiled and looked at the girl’s blouse. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“I suppose you’re wondering why I came to you.”

“Well...”

The buzzer sounded on his desk, and he clicked down the toggle. “Excuse me,” he said. Then, “Yes?”

“I’ve got Mr. Alloway on seven.”

“Thanks, Liz.” Van turned, snapped on seven, and focused. “Hello, Walt.”

“Hello, Van. What brews?” Alloway was a darkly handsome lad who’d recently had a nose bob. He was wearing crimson breeches, his chest curling with blond hair that was striking against the bronze of his skin. The hair on his head had been tinted blond, too, leaving his eyebrows their original black for a really unusual effect.

“I was wondering how you’re getting along on the new Senso,” Van said.

“All right, I suppose.”

“Ails? Ills?”

“Small smells, that’s all. I need a chick with a frontage. These damn Senso things demand too much.”

“Would you rather be back scribing for the pabacks?”

“Don’t make glip, father.”

“I’m the original glib lip,” Brant told him. “Since when is the scribe casting the show?”

“How do you mean?”

“You said you needed a chick with frontage.”

“Oh. Yeah. You ever work with Lana Davis?”

“Only to take her checks. Why?”

“She’s got Ree tendencies, I swear.”

Van glanced quickly at Miss Silverstein, and then turned back to Walt. “How so?”

“You know how these Sensory shows work. I swear, father, the step below is a better one. I’d rather do tri-dims any day of the week.”

“Less slop and more chop, Walt. I’ve got someone with me.”

“All right, I’ll straight-point it. I’ve got a busty bazoo in one scene, nice bit of biz with it. Davis doesn’t want falsies; she says the viewers can spot them and feel them. She wants the real thing. Is that Realist, or is it?”

“She’s right,” Van said. “She’s been producing these Sensos for a long time now. She knows what the suckers want.”

“But the real thing? There ain’t no such chick, Van, not the way I’ve written it.”

“So change the script.”

“That’s the crux, Van. She likes it the way it is!” He spread his hands helplessly, shaking his head. “She’s crazy Van, I swear.”

“Then do it her way. Pop over to Deborah Dean’s tonight. You’ll see plenty of frontage. You might be able to get something.”

Alloway looked doubtful. “Did you read the script?”

“No.”

“I thought so. If you had, you’d know there is no chick with a natural frontage like that. Oh, the hell with it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I can always get back into tri-dims — and if worse comes to worst, there’s the pabacks. At least the money is clean.”

“Who cares if it’s clean, as long as it’s much?”

“There’s no such,” Walt said. “You can talk. You don’t have to take it from a chick with a complex as long as my arm.”

“She been psyched, or are you just guessing?”

“I’m guessing, but it’s a sure thing. In the last sequence I did for her, she insisted my baddie was destroying the father image. Father image! Dig that for the falcs!”

“Stick with it, Walt; it’s cool cash. So you put up with a cashew, so what?”

“Yeah,” Alloway said disgustedly.

“I’ll see you tonight?”

“Deborah’s?”

“Yeah, at about twenty or twenty-one.”

“I’m with you.”

“Grooved.”

Brant clicked off and turned back to Miss Silverstein, who had politely stared out the window during the conversation.

“Now then,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

“Was that Walter Alloway?” she asked.

“The same.”

“He... he makes a lot of money, doesn’t he? Writing, I mean.”

“One of our best scribes.”

She nodded, thinking of the money, he knew, and not the quality of Walt’s writing. “I want to make a lot of money,” she said suddenly.

“An admirable desire. Everyone does.”

“I... I’ve never tried any Vicarion material.”

“What have you written?”

She turned her head; a flush suffused her neck, and spread over her face. “Stuff,” she said. “You know.”

“Stark realism? Slices of life? Turning the cruel, cold spotlight on suffering humanity? Exposing the...”

“You needn’t make fun,” she snapped.

“I wasn’t,” Van said honestly. “I used to handle that kind of stuff until I hopped aboard. If you want to make money, you’d best turn in your pen for a later model. You can sell slice-of-life to some of the small Ree journals for five skins a throw. I won’t handle it.”

“Why not?”

“Because an agent’s commission on a five dollar sale is fifty cents. I run a business, not a benevolent society.”

“But... but do you really believe in this Vike stuff you sell? I mean, do you honestly believe it’s literature?”

“What’s literature?” Brant asked. “I define it as the profession of a writer or author.”

“That’s a rather narrow definition.”

“Maybe.” Van shrugged. “Literature is also what people read. If they no longer read Beowulf, it’s no longer literature. Vike literature serves a definite need in our society; if you insist on giving it a raison d’etre, that’s it.”

“And... you’d recommend that I write that kind of... of stuff?”

“Me?” Van grinned crookedly. “Honey, I’m not recommending anything. You can write just what you want to write.”

“If I wanted to write Vike stuff, where would I begin?” she asked earnestly.

Van sighed deeply, and his eyes roamed her body frankly. “First, shorten your skirt by about three feet. Throw your blouse away and bare your breasts. Get some tints and cosmetics, and find a drug habit. If you’ve got the man habit, it’s a bad one. Kick your mate out and solo it. Live with Vikes, and stay with Vikes, and play with Vikes. Don’t speak with a full mouth, and eat alone. As they used to say, get with it. That’s the only way you can write it, and the only way you can sell it.”

“I... I see.”

“Toss over all your realistic beliefs, because they’ve no place in the Vicarion world. And it is a Vike world, honey; don’t forget that for a moment. Then when you’ve done all that, come back in a year or two and let me see what you’ve got.”

“Such a long time? Couldn’t it be done faster?”

Van smiled. “I see you’ve read Pygmalion — one of the prime examples of early Vike literature. I thought that was on the Realist spit list.”

“It is.”

“And you read it anyway, huh? Well, that’s promising.” He thought about this for a moment. “Maybe you can do it faster, who knows? What’s your name again?”

“Lydia Silverstein.”

“Mmm. Change that, and fast. Come back in a week or so, and I’ll talk to you then.”

She smiled ingratiatingly. “All right. Thanks a lot. I really...”

“No slop, mother. Come back in a week with a new name. We can use some good women scribes if you work out.”

“Thank you. Thank you very...”

“So long, Miss Silverstein.”

She rose abruptly, walking swiftly to the door. He watched her stiff-hipped walk and called, “Miss Silverstein?”

She turned anxiously. “Yes?”

“Get rid of that girdle.”

“Oh, I will,” she said. She backed a pace, whirling in surprise when the door slid open behind her. She smiled, nodded, and then walked out. The door slid shut.

Van walked to the desk and looked at his chronometer. It was already nine forty-six, and Hayden Thorpe didn’t like to be kept waiting.

He walked to the closet, took a bottle of alcojel from the shelf on the door, and rubbed it over his chest, arms, and back. It dried almost instantly, leaving a high sheen on his muscles. He looked into the mirror appreciatively, winked at his reflection, and then closed the closet door. He walked back to his desk and buzzed Lizbeth.

“Sir?”

“I’m leaving, Liz. I may be back this afternoon. If not, I’ll see you at twenty tonight. Send your address on the Pri-Com, will you?”

“Fine, Van.”

“You know where I’m going now, don’t you?”

“Mr. Thorpe’s?”

“Right. You can reach me there if it’s urgent. Otherwise, I’m in Outer Mongolia.”

“Grooved, Van.”

“Keep thee close, Liz,” he said. He heard her throaty chuckle as he clicked off. He took one last look in the mirror, and then headed for the lift and the sixteenth level.

Chapter 2

Dino Pelazi’s offices were on the twelfth level, and were it not for the fluorescent lighting and the air conditioning, they would have been dark and barely habitable.

With the conveniences, they were pleasant if not exactly luxurious. He stood by the window now, looking out at the ribbons of concrete that stretched between the buildings, criss-crossing in a wild medley of apparent misdirection. The sun glinted off the speeding, metallic cars of the pneumotubes, glistening like huge tear-drops in their transparent cylinders. The sky beyond the city was wide and blue, and the sun squatted on it like a contented Indian on a flawlessly woven blanket. His eyes lifted to the sky, followed the endless pattern of a jet plane trailing an advertising slogan across the unmarred blue.

S...M...O...

His mind leaped ahead. Smoke Randel’s — Tasty — Toasted — Boasted About...

The slogan pushed his subconscious; he walked nervously to his leather-topped desk, nudged the lid from a cigarette box, and speared a thin white cylinder. He placed it between his lips, lit it, and then walked back to the window.

He watched the meanderings of the jet a while longer, pleased when the pilot missed crossing the second “t” in toasted. He watched until the jet streaked back for the tailless letter, and then went back to his desk and snubbed out the cigarette.

His hand darted to the intercom speaker, and he pushed down a lever.

“Yes, sir.”

“Miss Dvorak,” he asked, “wasn’t that appointment for ten o’clock?”

“Yes, Mr. Pelazi. Mr. O’Donnell is here now, sir.”

“And the rest?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“All right, show O’Donnell in.”

“Yes, sir.”

He leaned back in his chair, his fingers idly stroking the black spade-beard that covered his chin. He wondered how O’Donnell would react to his idea. Probably violently. O’Donnell was a stiff-necked turtle if ever there was one, as bad in his own way as the worst Vicarion. The door slid open abruptly, and Miss Dvorak entered. She wore a loose business suit, buttoned to beneath her chin. A frill of lace protruded from above the collar of the suit, and her flat-soled shoes slapped against the bare wooden floor of the office.

“Mr. O’Donnell, sir,” she announced.

Sean O’Donnell stepped into the room behind her. He bobbed his head in thanks and then walked toward the desk. Miss Dvorak closed the door manually, and O’Donnell extended a large, square hand.

“Dino! Good to see you again.”

“Come in, Sean. Have a seat.”

O’Donnell nodded affably, the hang of his fleshy chin touching the high, stiff edge of his collar. “Something big on your mind, Dino?” He sat quickly, making himself comfortable.

“Yes,” Pelazi said. “I think so.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. O’Donnell’s fingers crawled to the knot of his tie, straightened it, and then slithered down the coarse front of his jacket to rest like a sand crab in his lap.

“I saw the review you gave the new Vike paback,” he said. “You really devastated it.”

“You really think so, do you?” Pelazi fastened studious brown eyes on O’Donnell’s face, and O’Donnell wriggled uncomfortably.

“Well... yes. Yes, I do. I mean, you... you hit it quite hard. Quite hard.”

“Not hard enough,” Pelazi said. “That’s one of the things I wanted to discuss.” He glanced at his wrist chronometer. “The others should be here soon.”

He lifted the lid of the cigarette box, took out a smoke and put it between his lips. “Cigarette, Sean?”

O’Donnell’s eyes widened slightly. “I... I didn’t know you smoked, Dino. I mean...”

“Smoking is the least of the Vicarion Movement’s vices. You, my friend, are an ultra-Realist. Your habit, supreme realism, is as bad as the drug habit of a Vicarion.”

“Now see here, Dino...”

“Shut up, Sean. Your life is your own. I take it you won’t retch if I have a smoke?”

“Not at all. That is...”

“Thank you.” Pelazi lighted the cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. “I happen to feel that a Realist is also entitled to a little relaxation. Besides, I’ve been doing a good deal of thinking on this whole setup. I think I’ve found the answer; that’s what I wanted to discuss with you and the others.”

O’Donnell leaned forward like an anxious cocker spaniel. “An answer, Dino? You mean... an answer to the Vikes?”

Pelazi sighed in exasperation. “No, I mean an answer to the uncurbed dog problem.”

“No need for sarcasm, Dino. I was just...”

“I’m sorry, Sean; I’m a little on edge. What I’ve stumbled on is so fantastically simple that I’ve been persecuting myself for not having thought of it sooner.”

“And you think...”

The buzzer on Pelazi’s desk sounded, and O’Donnell swallowed his own voice and shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Corona and Mr. Schultz are here, sir.”

“Ask them to come in, please. And bring in your pad, Miss Dvorak. I’ll want you to take all this down.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pelazi nodded briefly and rubbed his hands together. He stood, walked to the window, and watched the dissipating cigarette slogan, tapping his foot impatiently on the floor.

“Well! Dino, Sean!” a voice from the door boomed. “By God, you’re both getting fat!”

Pelazi turned to take the hand of Herman Schultz. Schultz was short and squat, with a round, open face, and guileless blue eyes. A gold watch chain stretched across the straining front of his vest. Pelazi reflected that he was hardly the person to be bandying corpulency about.

“Have a seat, Herman,” Pelazi said. He extended his hand to Corona. “Al, you too.”

Corona shook Pelazi’s hand firmly. “Hello, Dino,” he said in a soft voice. “I understand you’ve something important to discuss.”

“Yes, yes,” Pelazi answered. He liked Corona. He had often wondered if this was because of the attorney’s Italian background, so much like his own. He had put this aside when he’d tallied Corona’s obvious virtues: his mild manner, his shrewd intelligence, his quick wit. And he was thin. Unconsciously, Pelazi favored lean people, attributing them with the same restless energy he possessed — though this was not always the case.

“Smoke, anyone? Drink?” Pelazi asked. He was beginning to feel excited.

Schultz and O’Donnell exchanged glances.

“Didn’t know you were going Vike, Dino,” Schultz said guardedly.

“Don’t be an egghead, Herman,” Pelazi said angrily. He passed his hand over his snow-white mane of hair. “More Rees smoke and drink than you can count on your...”

“Do you want me to take all this down, sir?” Miss Dvorak interrupted.

“No. Yes. I don’t care. Yes, you’d better.”

“I’ll have a drink, Dino,” Corona said. “If no one else minds.”

Good old Al, Pelazi thought. Good old true-blue Al. I don’t know what I’d do without you, friend.

“Rye? Scotch? I’m all out of gin, Al.”

“Rye is fine. Straight, please.”

“I really don’t feel this should be encouraged, Dino,” Schultz said. “If it should get out that one of the leaders of the Realist...”

“It won’t get out,” Pelazi snapped. “And if it does, the hell with it. We’re not going to crack the Vikes by pretending we’re robots.”

“But drinking,” O’Donnell protested. “After all, Dino, let’s be sensible.”

“Do you know the latest figures on all this, Sean?”

“On all what?”

“On alcohol consumption in Realist homes?”

O’Donnell cleared his throat. “Well, no; I can’t say that I do.”

Pelazi moved to the bar, quickly poured a good three fingers of rye into a water tumbler. “Then let me enlighten you. I haven’t exactly been sitting in my rocker, you know. There’s been plenty wrong with our whole approach to the Vikes, and I decided that the best way to find out just what, would be to find out what was wrong with the Rees first.” He walked to Corona, handed him the glass. Corona nodded in thanks.

“Twenty-three percent of the Realist population,” Pelazi said, “have never tasted alcohol.”

Schultz nodded his approval, letting the group know he was one of that twenty-three percent.

“Thirty-seven point seven percent drink socially,” Pelazi went on. “That means a drink or two at parties, gatherings, on the way home, what-have-you.”

“I had no idea it was so prevalent,” O’Donnell said.

“Then you’d better get a good grip on your chair. Because the rest of the Ree population — some thirty-nine point three percent — are what can be considered habitual alcoholics.”

“What!” Schultz exploded. “That’s nonsense, sheer nonsense. By God, Dino, if you’re joking...”

“I’m not joking, Herman. These are facts, cold, hard facts. Do you want to look over the figures yourself?”

“I’m sure that’s not necessary,” Schultz said quickly. He cleared his throat and smoothed the front of his vest.

“Perhaps you’d rather I didn’t touch this,” Corona said, indicating the whiskey.

“Drink, drink,” Schultz said irritably.

“I didn’t bring this up to justify Al’s glass of rye,” Pelazi added. “This is all part of what I’ve been thinking, and all part of what led to my scheme. I’ve discovered, for example, that seventy-four percent of the Ree population are heavy smokers. As a matter of fact, most cigarette purchases are made by Rees — and not by Vikes, as you would suppose.”

“Are you sure these figures are accurate, Dino?”

“International Statistics, Incorporated,” Pelazi said.

“That’s a Vike outfit.”

“What difference does it make? Can you think of a comparable Ree outfit that could give as accurate a report?”

“I suppose not.”

“All right, then. Here’s the worst part. I’ve learned that approximately four percent of all paperback purchases are made by Rees. That’s a gain of three point four over last year’s statistics. The same rough increase applies to tri-dim and stereoshow attendance. Luckily, it hasn’t spread to the sensory medium — as yet.” Pelazi paused. “Given time, it will.”

Corona sipped at his rye. “You mean, Dino, that we’re losing.”

“We’re not only losing, we’re losing fast. Unless we do something and do it soon, we’ll have lost.”

“I can’t believe it,” Schultz said.

“These are facts,” Pelazi insisted. “They made me start thinking about our means of combatting the Vikes: Bad reviews of the paperbacks, speeches, pamphlets. That is like a fly gnawing an elephant’s tail, and just about as effective. There was a time when the Vicarion Movement was the upstart group, when a speech or a bad review was a real blow. That time has passed. The Vikes are now the power; the Realists are the ‘movement.’ ”

The room was silent for a moment. Miss Dvorak looked up from her pad expectantly.

“Figure it out for yourself,” Pelazi said. “The Vikes control every propaganda outlet in the nation. They’ve got the entertainment industry in the palm of their hands. The publishing business is theirs. They control most of the press, and the news outlets. Luckily, the public and private communicators are government-owned or we’d never get to air an opinion. The advertising field is in their back pocket, and they’ve got money. Tons of the stuff. Money.”

“We know all this, Dino,” Schultz said. His voice was oddly gruff.

“Sure, we know it. We’ve known it for a long time, but we’ve deliberately closed our eyes to it. We’ve talked ourselves into thinking that the Vikes were a passing fad. Well, they’re not so passing. They’re damned permanent — or at least they will be, unless we wake up fast.”

“Who could have imagined...” O’Donnell started.

“You’re right, Sean, who could have? Who could have ever in a lifetime imagined that their stupid ideas would catch on? When a man says that eating is a savage thing, an animal act to be practiced in private, to be ashamed of, to be shielded from other eyes, who could have imagined? You’d call him insane; you’d say he should be put away. But how many Vikes are there now? And how many people are there who believe just that? How many won’t put a morsel of food into their mouths if anyone is within ten miles of them? How many? You count them.”

“Dino...”

“And sex? How many people feel that...”

“That was the start of it,” Schultz said, nodding his head vigorously. “It all started with that. Goddamnit, it all started with that. If we’d have...”

“There’s no sense going back to the beginning, Herman. That was a long, long time ago. It would have taken a prophet to forecast the present situation. And unfortunately when the Vikes were first gaining strength, there was no prophet around.”

“I said we should have taken them more seriously,” O’Donnell said. “I said that from the very start. Right when the eating business first popped up.”

“I said it, too,” Corona almost whispered. “But we didn’t do anything about it.”

“And now we’re ruined!” Schultz screamed. “Now they’re running everything, and decency had just gone down the drain!”

“Not yet!” Pelazi snapped. “Not yet, my friend.”

“Yes, yes,” Schultz insisted. “You know it as well as I do, Dino; there’s no beating them now.”

“Not the way we’ve been fighting them, no. But there is another way.”

“I don’t know if I care any more,” O’Donnell said. “You see people degenerating all around you, and you begin to wonder if you’re not the one who’s insane. Everybody’s out of step but Johnny.” He shook his head, and his crab-hands worked nervously in his lap.

“But we are,” Pelazi said, a thin smile on his face.

“We are what?”

“Out of step.”

Schultz and O’Donnell said nothing. They stared disconsolately at the floor.

“I think I know what you mean, Dino,” Corona said. He took a healthy swig of rye, swallowed it instantly.

“There’s no way,” Schultz said. “Let’s admit it.”

“But there is a way,” Pelazi answered.

“No, No.”

A heavy silence shouldered its way into the room.

Corona was the first to speak. “Dino’s right.”

“So what do we do about it? What’s the way?”

“What’s your plan, Dino?”

“My plan is so damned simple, it’s ridiculous. But if it works, the Vikes will be shattered within a year. If it works.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“If it doesn’t, you’d better buy yourself a tin of heroin and a hypodermic needle, because that’s the way things are going to be from then on.”

There was another silence. O’Donnell’s fingers worked nervously on his tie. Schultz coughed.

“Let’s hear it,” Corona said softly.

The musichron turned itself on at 1030; wafting a new Vike tape into the room. The sax section murmured whisperingly, soft reeds vibrating. Deborah Dean did not stir.

Her golden-red hair was spread out on the pillow in a shimmering fan. The blinds were tilted upward, casting sunlight away from the bed, reflecting it harmlessly. The chron persisted, saxaphones giving way to the deep rumble of a bass piano. The piano modulated skillfully, and the trumpet section started its chorus in a higher key.

Deborah stirred, stretched. “Damn,” she murmured. “Morning.”

She sat up, the sheet falling to her waist. Tonight is the party. That, at least, was a good thought. There’d be the preparations, and the stint at the cosmets, and the new stuff should be arriving. There was still a lot to do. She tried to remember if there was anything she’d forgotten.

Tapes.

The new Senso. That would fix them. Oh yes, that would fix them. She thought of the preview she’d seen.

The tape on the musichron persisted, and she rose abruptly, swinging her long legs over the side of the bed, touching her feet to the rug. She walked quickly to the blinds, stabbed viciously at the button in the sill. The blinds tilted downward, splashing sunlight into the room. She felt the warmth cover her body.

Damnit, was she going to have to look at a new Senso every morning? Was that what she’d have to do?

“Something’s psyched-up,” she said aloud. She walked quickly to her dressing table, opened the top drawer, and found her kit. Nothing like a fix to send the blues. Nothing like a fix to stab the Ree inside. What Ree, she wondered. What the hell am I thinking?

She unsnapped the lid, selected a vial, looked at the chrono on the case’s cover. Well, hell, no wonder; she’d overslept. It was twenty minutes past happy time. That would throw her whole day off — and with the party tonight.

“Damn,” she said softly.

She ran the silver vial on the inside of her thigh until the score gauge clicked. She fired then and felt the drug take her blood. The other thing within her died, stabbed by the narcotic daggers that raced through her body. God, this was it. Father, this was doom.

She sucked in air audibly, letting it hiss sibilantly through her teeth.

She was disappointed when the vial clicked empty. Maybe she should fix again? No. A stab-it habit was the worst kind; she’d learned that long ago. She twisted the cap of the vial, cleaned the needle, and dropped it with the other empties. She wasn’t hungry, but she knew she had to eat.

Why do I have to eat, she wondered. Because, mother, face it. You’re an animal. My, I’m disgusting. And so early in the a.m., too.

“Alexis,” she called.

The door slid open instantly, and her maid came in. She wore a white hat perched atop her head and a laced skirt that ended on her thighs where long, black mesh stockings began. She looked clean and wholesome in her uniform, Deborah thought.

“Some breakfast, darl,” she said. “Not too much.”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Have you fixed yet?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“You’d better have that damned musichron checked. I overslept.”

“It clicked at ten-thirty, Miss. I heard it.”

“Then why didn’t you wake me?”

“I thought... I thought you might want to rest a little longer this morning, Miss.”

“You’re not paid to think,” Deborah snapped, and was immediately sorry when she saw the hurt expression that flicked on Alexis’ face. Damn, what was wrong with her lately, anyway? Well, there was no backing down now.

“I mean... because of the party tonight,” Alexis added lamely.

“I see.” All right, she’s given you a save-face, Deborah thought. Why don’t you take it? Go ahead, you have your way out. Go ahead.

“I’ll want some orange juice, coffee, and some buttered toast,” she said.

“Yes, Miss.”

Alexis turned and started for the door, and Deborah studied the flawless seams down the curving backs of her legs.

“Alexis,” she said, fully intending to apologize.

“Yes, Miss?” The maid turned, with a sudden, eager movement.

“Nothing. Just hurry.”

“Yes, Miss.”

She left the room, and Deborah stared at the closed door for several moments after she’d gone. I’ve slipped a cog for sure, she thought. Dropped a marble or two. I wonder what Rog would have to say about this little skirmish. The same thing, probably. The same thing he’s been dinning at me for the past two months. The trouble with psychs is that most of them needed to be psyched.

She grinned and made a mental note to remember that. Maybe she’d tell it to Rog. That should stand his hair on end. She walked to her closet, opened it, and selected a short dressing gown. She slipped into it quickly, hunching her shoulders against the slippery cold feel of the silk. The gown ended just above the rounded curve of her buttocks, fastened at the crotch with a single snap that left the rest of the garment spread in a wide V. She walked to the odor control, studied the panel for a few moments, and then selected pine. She twisted the dial, adjusted it for intensity, and then sniffed pleasurably as the scent of crushed pine needles wafted into the room.

How does pine go with orange juice? she wondered. Or, she added mentally, if we’re going to get philosophical, how does anything go with orange juice?

She walked briskly to the window and stared out over the city. Another day, endless, exhaustive. Dull. Another day, another dullard.

“Miss?”

She turned, saw Alexis setting the breakfast tray on the small table near her bed. “Oh, thank you, Alexis.” She walked to the bed, sat down quickly. “I’ll be eating, darl.”

“Yes, Miss.” Alexis turned away and walked quickly from the room. The door slid shut behind her, and Deborah touched the button near the head of her bed, locking the door. She remembered the blinds, stood up, went to the window, and closed them. She went back to her breakfast then, sipping at the orange juice. She was starting on her coffee when Alexis’ voice came from outside the door.

“Miss?”

“I’m eating, Alexis.”

“I know, Miss. Please forgive me.”

“All right, what is it?”

“Mr. Moore is calling, Miss.”

“In person, or on the Vid?”

“The Vid, Miss.”

“All right, I’ll take it.” She leaned over to snap on the Vid, and then remembered to say “thanks” to Alexis. She focused until Rog Moore’s face filled the screen clearly and sharply. He sported a Vandyke carefully trimmed on his chin, and he wore his hair in its natural shade, a deep black that hugged his head like a helmet. He squinted at the screen with intense brown eyes.

“Are you with me, Deb?”

“I’m here, Rog.”

“Can’t see you.” She saw him reach out with his hand to adjust his focus control.

“I’m blanked, Rog; I’m eating.”

“Oh, forgive me. I’ll call back later.”

“No, that’s all right. What is it?”

“Nothing, really. Just calling to see how you felt this a.m.”

“Professional or personal?”

“A little of each.”

“I feel fine, Rog.”

“No... well, no recurrence of previous symptoms?”

“You sound like a Ree.”

“No, just a psych.”

“No recurrence,” she lied, “all smooth.”

“Good. Have you given any thought to my suggestion?”

“A little.”

“And?”

“Zero, father.”

“Zero? Or X?”

“Sorry, I meant X. Did I say zero?”

“Yes, you did.”

“I meant X; I’m still undecided.”

“Well, mull it, jell it, it’ll come.”

“I know.”

“I’ve got to run, Deb. There’s an appointment due in about five.”

“Grooved, Rog. I’ll see you tonight, won’t I?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How’s business otherwise?”

“Not too bad. Got a real case this aft.”

“Oh?”

“A Vike turned Ree. Damndest thing you ever saw.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing much. His Id slid.”

Deborah laughed, and she saw Rog’s mobile face break into a large grin.

“I’ll see you,” he said.

He clicked off, and she went back to her breakfast, eating listlessly. His Id slid. She thought about it, and the longer she thought, the less funny it seemed.

Chapter 3

The projector snapped off, leaving the room black for an instant, somehow cold and empty after what had been. Van Brant sank back in the foam-upholstered chair, feeling completely spent and exhausted. Music flowed from the wall speakers, and the lights came on, soft and golden.

“Well,” Hayden Thorpe said, “how’d you like it?”

“I’m dead,” Brant said. He wasn’t kidding. It had been terrific. Positively sensational.

Hayden beamed happily. He was a short, corpulent man who affected tight tunics slashed to his waist in an attempt to cover the roll of flesh there. Van had to admit this was preferable, on Hayden, to a bare chest. Hayden rubbed his pudgy hands together now, and said, “This is going to set the Senso industry solid, Van. I’m telling you this is the biggest goddamned thing since video.”

“You’ve sold me, Hayden,” Van said. “How many scribes will you need?”

“Always business,” Hayden said, chuckling. He nudged one of his assistants, a pale-faced lad with an uneven crewcut. “What do you think of this illidge, Lawrence?”

Lawrence chuckled back, not daring to offend Van by agreeing with Hayden, yet not wanting to seem disagreeable.

“What’d you think of the love scene?” he asked Brant, changing the subject about as subtly as a riveter.

“Destruction,” Van said. It had been. He’d never experienced anything quite like it before.

“Felt as if the chick was really in your arms, didn’t it?” Hayden asked.

“In my arms? Father, I could feel her flesh and smell her perfume. Hayden, you’ve got something here that...”

“That’s only half of it, Van,” Hayden said proudly. “Remember, we call this Individual Sensory Productions. Just a second.” He leaned back and pressed a button on the arm of his chair. Above the music drifting from the speaks, came a well-modulated feminine voice.

“Yes, sir?”

“Rhonda, would you come in a moment, please?”

“Certainly, Mr. Thorpe.”

Hayden leaned forward again and said, “My secretary, Van; I think you’ll be more than a little surprised by what she has to say.”

Van nodded and waited for the door to slide open. When it did, a tall brunette entered, carrying a small stenotab. Her hair was piled high on her head, accentuating her height, in the fashion most tall girls affected. She wore her breasts pitch black, matching her hair, with silver sequins scattered from each nipple in a haphazard smear. Her skirt was long, but slit up the center and revealing laced, transparent underwear. She walked across the room in long-legged strides, sitting in a chair next to Hayden. She crossed her legs and poised her slender, well-manicured fingers over the keys of the stenotab, ready for dictation.

“No,” Hayden said, “I just wanted you to tell Mr. Brant something.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. She arched her brows, batted her lashes over the auburn contact lenses she wore. “What was it, sir?”

“You saw the Indi-Senso we ran yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you remember the love scene?”

A pulse in her throat quickened, and she lowered her eyes, “Yes, sir.”

“Will you describe it to Mr. Brant, please?”

“Well, I... that is, sir... I...” She looked to Van, hopefully.

“Really, Hayden,” Van said, “there’s no need to get Ree about this. I saw the scene, and I...”

“Please, Van,” Hayden said, holding his hand up like a traffic robot. “I have no intention of intruding on your privacy, Rhonda, believe me. I want typical audience reactions, and you’re one of the few women who saw the Senso. Would you describe the love scene?”

The girl wet her lips, batted her lashes again, sucked in a deep breath and said, “Well... it was set on a balcony...”

“Yes?”

“And... and it was a starry night...”

Van remembered the balcony, and he remembered the stars. He also remembered how crisp and clean the air had smelled. The stars had shone like brittle glass in an immensely black sky, and there had been a quiet feel of peace over the land. The hero had taken the girl into his arms, and Van had actually felt the pressure of her breasts, the silkiness of her hair. He’d smelled the musky fragrance of her perfume, tasted the faint mint flavor of her lipstick. It had been an experience, all right, one of the best Sensos he’d ever seen. But he was beginning to wonder just why Hayden was putting his secretary through a personal inquisition.

“The... the girl went into the boy’s arms,” Rhonda said. “And then he kissed her.”

“Yes, go on.”

“I... his face was rough, as if he had shaved but not too closely. There was the smell of aftershave on his face, I remember, and an old leather smell about him, somehow. You know what I mean. A very... masculine smell.”

Van looked at the girl in astonishment, beginning to understand just exactly what Hayden had accomplished.

“His arms were very strong,” she said. “They’d been coated with alcojel, you know the odor. He’d been smoking before that, and I could... could taste the tobacco on his mouth. It... it was very nice.” She paused, seeming to wander into a reverie. “Very nice.”

“Thank you, Rhonda,” Hayden said. “You may go now.” She rose, uncrossing her legs and striding across the room. Hayden could hardly contain himself until the door slid shut behind her. “Well, Van?” he asked, a smile mushrooming over his face.

“I don’t believe it,” Van said. “It was a put-up job.”

“God’s truth,” Hayden said soberly. “The gal saw the show yesterday. I haven’t chopped with her since.”

Van digested this for about three seconds. “Father,” he said, “you’re a crazy, drug-loving, psyched-up illidge, but I love you I This will set the industry...”

“...solid. Just what I said. Individual Sensos, Van. The men live a completely different experience than the women. I’ve brought viewpoint to the Sensos, Van. It overwhelms me when I think of it. I’m a genius!”

“Genius! You’re going to be a millionaire, you crazy stud. You’re going to have more money than Fort Knox!”

Hayden turned suddenly to his assistant. “Take a powder, Lawrence.”

“Yes, sir,” Lawrence answered obediently. He walked to the door and left soundlessly. Hayden’s face turned suddenly serious.

“You think I’ve got something, Van?”

“Got something? Hayden, this is the most terrific thing I’ve ever...”

“I need money,” he said quickly.

He shocked Van for a moment. Hayden had been producing Sensos for a long time now. If there was anyone Van thought was comfortably fixed, it was Hayden Thorpe. “You’re kidding,” he said.

“No. No, I’m straight, Van.”

“Money? You?”

“My habit is long and strong,” he said. “Corradon.”

“Oh,” Brant said, understanding at once. Corradon was a synthetic drug. It cost a hell of a lot, even now that narcotics were legal. A Corradonict needed a pile, and he needed a pile measured in miles.

“This thing is the biggest,” Hayden said. “There’s plenty in it for both of us. You back me, Van, and we’re wedded.”

“Five-five?” Van asked.

“You know the idea itself rates a seven-three,” Hayden said. “At least a six-four, anyway.” He shrugged and spread his hands wide. “Without the moo, though, I’ve got nothing. You back me, and I’ll make it an even split. Five-five. Grooved?”

“How much do you need?”

“Two stones.”

“What!”

“I thought I could get by on one, but it’s impossible. Even cutting to the marrow, it would come to at least a stone and a half.”

Van shook his head. “I haven’t got that kind of money, Hayden.”

“How much can you raise immediately?”

“Nine hundred gee. Maybe.”

Hayden nodded. “That’s not bad; that’s only a gee short of a stone. Can we raise the other million?”

“Hayden, that’s a hell of a lot of moo.”

“Goddamnit, I know it, father. Do you think I’d have come to you if I could’ve raised it myself? Van, this is the biggest thing on the scene. You want to make some money, you’ve got to invest some. I thought you had connections.”

“I do, I do. But...”

“Do you want in or not? I came to you first because I know you and I like you. You want to be a ten-percenter all your life? You can cut loose of all your scribes, once this thing hits the market.”

He looked at Brant, saw the dubious look on his face, and said, “Did you see the stars in that chick’s eyes when she described the mush to you? You ever see anyone look like that talking about an ordinary Senso? Hell, Van, you saw the show yourself. Was it, or wasn’t it?”

“It was.”

“Did it fix you?”

“It fixed me. It was doom. But two stones...”

“You said you could raise close to one. That leaves a million to go. If you can get the nine hundred gee by the end of the week, we can start production. We’ll need another gee or so by the end of the month, and the remainder for the ballyhoo just before release. That won’t be too close. Six months, at least.”

“How long did it take you to make the pilot?” Van asked.

“Three months.”

“And you figure on a full length feature in six months. Father, what are you mixing?”

“All right, the pilot you just saw was a fifteen minute show. But we were working out a lot of bugs, and the technique was new. There’ll be no guessing on the feature, Van. We’ve got it down pat. When I say six months, I mean six months. Not a day over.”

“What about scribes?”

“That’s your end; you’re a literary agent, aren’t you?” “Sure, but scribes can’t eat promises.”

“We’ll pay them from the first nine hundred you raise.”

“How many will we need?”

“I used a team of six men and six women for the pilot. We need both, you know. This takes a special kind of writing, Van, you don’t know the half of it.”

“I know we won’t get six of each for less than a stone. My scribes are high-priced, Hayden.”

“Can’t you...”

“I’m their agent. I work for them, remember?”

“Then get some low-priced scribes. Get one of each, a man and a woman. They don’t have to be terrific; the medium will carry the lousiest writing, as long as it’s suited to the process. Besides, this is all new. There are no experienced scribes for this sort of thing.”

“How high can we go?”

“You’re not thinking of your commish, are you?”

“Hell, no! I want to know who I can get. For that, I want to know what I can pay. Come, father, don’t make glip.”

“All right. We can go to twenty gee.”

“Per?”

“I was thinking of twenty gee for both. If we have to make it per, okay.” Hayden smiled. “It’s your money, Van.”

“Yeah.” Brant stood up and took his hand. “Deal?” he asked.

“Deal,” Hayden said.

“Real,” Van acknowledged. “I’ll have the moo by the end of the week. Nine hundred gee. Another gee by the end of the month, and the rest in six months or so.”

“Right.”

“I see the light, father.”

“Give me a call, Van,” Hayden said. “This thing is big.”

“Your language is small,” Van answered. “This thing is doom!”

He called Walt Alloway from a pay phone. When his picture and voice came on, Van said, “I’m using scrambler thirty-one. Want to tune in?”

“Hush stuff?” Alloway asked.

“Much hush. Come on, Walt.”

“Sure,” he said.

Van pressed the button marked thirty-one on the face of the instrument. That would scramble his voice and picture so that only Walt, after adjusting his own set to decode, would receive his message. Common plug-ins were widespread, but the use of the scrambler made that impossible.

“Okay?” Van asked.

“Grooved.”

“Fine. You still want to take a powder on Lana Davis?”

“I’d love to. How?”

“I’ve got something big for you. It’ll mean a cut, though.”

“How much of a cut?”

“Down to twenty gee.”

“What!”

“Twenty gee,” Van repeated.

“That’s a mean slash, father.”

“I know. Do you want it?”

Alloway shook his head. “I’d sure like to get from under that chick, Van. But twenty gee. Hell, after taxes, I’d have marbles.”

“This is the biggest goddamn thing you’ve ever fallen into,” Van said harshly. “I can get sixty scribes who’ll do it for nothing, just on the promise of what it’ll bring them later on. If you don’t want it, I’ll look elsewhere. So long, Walt.”

“Hey, hold on, father!”

“What is it?”

“Well, chop a little more about it. Be fair, Van.”

“I can’t chop on the phone.”

“You’re scrambled, Van.”

“Even scrambled. Look, think it over. I’m your agent, and I say this is hot. You can take my word, remembering who pulled you out of the pabacks, or you can donut-leap.”

“Van, give me a chance to...”

“I’ll see you at Deborah’s tonight. I’ll tell you more then— But only if you’re in. If you’re cool, fool, this is too hot to spread around. You follow?”

“All the way. It’s big, huh, Van?”

“Bigger than birth.”

“But a cut in cash.”

“It’ll be the smartest move you ever made. Think about it.”

Brant clicked off, smiling to himself and swinging the door of the booth wide. He was on the fifth level, where his accountants, Barton and Houston, kept shop. They were the people to see next.

He stepped out of the booth, walked through the store, and out onto the curb. He was still smiling.

Brant grabbed the first pneumotube that came by, setting the electronic hailing signal at the curb. When the car stopped, he climbed in, deposited his coin, and punched the tabs near his seat. The car hummed and then swept forward swiftly. In three minutes, he’d travelled three miles, and he cursed the snail’s pace until he remembered he was down on the fifth level, a local level. The signal light near his seat blared red, and he rose as the car slowed and the door slid open. He stepped onto the curb, looked for the numbers on the buildings, found the one he wanted, and walked inside.

His heels echoed on the marble floors as he walked down the corridor. He passed two Rees in the hallway, complete with shirts and ties and wearing (of all goddamned things, he thought) hats. They studied the hair on his chest with obvious distaste, wrinkled their noses, and hurried off down the hallway. He shrugged, and then walked into the reception room of Barton and Houston.

A redheaded switchboard operator, her skin tinted an offcolor green, sat with her hands darting out for rubbery, snakelike connections. Her shoulders were bare, as were her breasts, and she had left the skin between her collar bones and the lower side of her bosom its natural shade. The effect was a bit startling, and Van glanced at it appreciatively.

The girl plugged one of the connections into a hole on the board.

“Barton and Houston, good afternoon.”

Van looked at his wrist chron. Damn if it wasn’t afternoon; twelve-ten already. He whistled tunelessly while she disposed of the lights flickering on her board. When she turned to him, he said, “Jo Houston, please.”

“Who’s calling, sir?”

“Van Brant.”

“Just a moment, Mr. Brant.”

Van walked over to the long window looking out over the criss-crossed ribbons that wound through the sky above and below the fifth level. Stretching from the third level up to the ninth, he saw the full-length figure of the star of one of the stereoshows originating on the seventh level. As he watched, the gigantic figure sucked in a deep breath. Her breasts moved suggestively, and her navel filled with shadow.

“Mr. Brant?”

He turned away from the window and the poster art, and walked back to the redhead, who was real. “Yes?”

“Mr. Houston will see you now, sir.”

“Thanks. Say, do you always dress formally in this office?”

The girl glanced down at her skin tint self-consciously. “Oh, no, sir. I’m going to a party straight from work. Mr. Houston said it would be all right if...”

“I see. I was just wondering.”

She smiled, and Brant smiled back and walked through the gate into Jo’s office. He was sitting behind a cluttered desk, with an enormous ledger opened before him. When Van entered, he rose and. extended his hand.

“Van, you old illidge! How goes the body?”

“Ticking and clicking, no kicking. And you?”

“Sound and round, like money found. What brings you, Van?”

“Business.”

“Oh?”

“Uhm,” Van said flatly. “Look, Jo, I haven’t been fixed since Lord knows. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, no,” Jo said expansively. “Go right ahead. Just had mine, as a matter of fact. What’s your pleasure?”

“Morph, Jo.”

“Morph it is. A straight lad, eh?”

“Always.”

Jo moved to the bar, pressed a stud in its top, and removed a leather case. “Been on herro myself,” he said. He selected a vial from the case and handed it to Van. He waited while Van checked the gauge and located the vein. He nodded, then, and said, “Happy, Van.”

Van nodded acknowledgement and fired. It hit him fast and hard, and he sucked in a deep breath, twisted the cap, and handed the vial back to Jo. “Your stuff is always good.”

“Only the best for my clients,” Jo said. “What’s on your mind, Van?”

“Liquidation.”

“Huh?”

“I need cash fast, Jo. I want you to get rid of all my holdings; everything but the agency. I need close to a stone by Saturday.”

Jo whistled softly. “In a jam?”

“No. Business.”

“Sounds good.”

“It is. Can you do it for me?”

Jo spread the fingers of one hand wide. “Sure.” Then he cocked his head to one side, his deep brown eyes set into the layers of flesh on his face. “Anything that might interest me?”

“Sorry, Jo.”

Jo smiled. “Okay, okay.” He patted the air with his hand. “So what’s new otherwise?”

“Nothing much. You?”

“A few new accounts. Very nice. You know Steele and Dawes?”

“Advertising?”

“Yes. Enormous. We just got them.”

“How’s Day?”

“He’s fine. Holding down the Barton end of Barton and Houston.”

“Steele and Dawes, you say. Why does it ring a bell?”

“The boys who finally broke through the prohibition lobby.”

“Oh yes, of course. The ones who started the new swing in liquor advertising.”

Jo nodded. “You remember what the ads used to be like. For Mellow Flavor or For A Taste Treat. Anything but what they really wanted to say.” He chuckled audibly, remembering, and added, “I’ll never forget the first one, Van. The name of the liquor was Daley’s, I believe. Steele and Dawes plastered the town with tri-dim bottles. Everywhere you looked, a bottle was staring down at you. And all the copy said was, Daley’s Makes You Drunk As A Lord!”

He laughed aloud, and Van laughed with him, remembering what a furor that first honest liquor ad had caused.

Chapter 4

The party was a sumptuous thing, but then all of Deborah Dean’s parties were. She’d had one complete wall of the living room knocked down for the occasion, replacing it with a clear pane of plexoid that ran the length of the room. Her apartment was swank, high up on the fiftieth level, looking down over the city and the river. When Van came in with Lizbeth on his arm, the lights were low in the room, and the city twinkled and sparkled outside the plexoid sheet like a galaxy of blazing, multi-colored suns.

Deborah spotted them the moment they came through the door, and she hurried over. She was the only woman Brant knew who could carry off green eyes and a blue skin tint well. Her breasts were spattered with glistening gold dust, the nipples luminous in the dim light of the room. Her skirt was long in the back, almost trailing the floor, gashing upward in a wide V that terminated at her waist in the front.

“Van,” she cried, “How good!”

Van took the hand she extended, and smiled cordially. “Deborah, this is Lizbeth.”

Deborah grinned, and her eyes roamed Lizbeth’s body candidly. Van watched her with some amusement, secretly admitting that Liz had really outdone herself tonight. She had a thin blue, shimmering strap of plastone decorously clinging to her breasts. She had chosen a peach skin tint, and had contrasted it with a pitch black skirt that ended on her thighs. Her lips matched the plastone strip, and she’d done her hair to go with the skirt. They’d had a fix in Van’s car, and her eyes sparkled behind their blue contacts. Even Deborah was impressed, and Van knew she didn’t impress easily.

“Nice, Van,” she said.

“Why, thank you, Deb.”

She smiled again. “What’s your pleasure?”

“We’ve been fixed,” Van told her. “Maybe later.”

“You know where the bar is. Just help yourself. I’ve got a wonderful Senso for later, and something new in a tri-dim. And, oh, I’ve got some destructive tapes, Van. The very latest sound.” She closed her eyes ecstatically. “Doom, pure doom.”

“I’ll be listening.” He paused. “I’d like to talk to you later, Deb.”

“Why not now?”

“Alone,” he said.

Deborah opened her eyes in surprise. “Why, Van, you’re not turning Ree, are you?”

“Don’t be disgusting,” Van said quickly.

She patted his cheek, her hand cool and firm, a sensuous musky perfume rising from its palm. “I was kidding, darl. As a matter of fact, I want to talk to you, too. When the Senso is showing, grooved? But then, I hate to have you miss it. It really is good.”

“I’ll see it some other time.”

“All right, Van. I’ll look for you later.”

She waved and was gone, ready to greet another pair of guests.

“She’s nice,” Lizbeth said. “I like her stomach. Who does it for her?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see anything unusual about it.”

“Didn’t you notice? It was beautiful, Van, really. Oh, you’re kidding me! Didn’t you really notice?”

“There’s Rog Moore,” Van said.

“Who?”

“Moore. You know him. The big psych. I wonder what the hell he’s doing here.”

“Why not? Psychs are human.”

“Are they?”

Lizbeth giggled and took his arm. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s mingle.”

They walked across the room to a small clique who had a song going. They listened to one chorus, and then both joined in on the refrain:

“Pop it, moppett,

“Stick it in your vein.

“Push it in and pull it out

“And stick it in again.

“Mass it, gas it,

“Dast thou pass it?

“Never!

“Never!

“Naaa-ay, fa-ther,

“NAY!”

They all enjoyed a good laugh, and then a tall, dark-haired boy in silver breeches began improvising a chorus.

“There once was a Ree man named Dino!

“Who strolled on the old bal-colino.

“He tripped on his clothes,

“And ruptured his nose

“In a most realistic fash-ino!

“Ohhhhhhh...”

They all laughed, and then a clever girl with pink shells on her nipples took up another chorus, a bit raw this time, but still funny. They were in the middle of another refrain when Van saw Walt Alloway come into the room. He excused himself and started for the door, the sound of the singing behind him. At the bar, a young girl lifted her leg and popped off with a vial. She was undoubtedly new at it because her eyes seemed ready to leave her skull, and she began trembling so badly that Van thought she’d lose her skirt.

He grabbed Walt by the arm before he’d even had a chance to say hello and began steering him toward a dark corner.

“Hey,” Alloway complained, “what the hell’s the rush?”

“You want to hear this, or don’t you?”

“Sure, sure. But I want to taste some of this new stuff I hear Deborah’s got. Hell, father, I haven’t had a fix since noon in preparation.”

“All right, go pop. But hurry back, Walt.”

“Sure,” Walt said, looking at Van curiously. “Sure.”

He started toward the bar, waving his hand in greeting as he passed Rog Moore, the psych. Van followed Walt with his eyes until he reached the bar, and then lost him in the cluster of people there. When Van swung his eyes back, he realized that Moore was heading in his direction. He turned his head away quickly, pretending to look through the plexoid at the city. But Moore had already spotted him, so he gave it up.

“Hello there, Brant,” Moore called.

Van looked up, feigning surprise. “Well, hello, Moore. Long time no. Pull up a chair.”

“Thanks.” The psych hooked a small foam cushion with his toe, pulled it toward him and plopped down on it. Van studied the tall thin man, his eyes roaming over the immaculate Vandyke, the eager eyes in the intense face. Moore cocked one raven brow now and said, “Nice party.”

“Not bad,” Van admitted. “I didn’t know you knew Deborah.”

“Oh yes,” Moore said. “Quite well.” He passed a clawlike hand over his naturally hairy chest, scratched idly at one pectoral. “One of my favorite patients, in fact.”

“That right?”

“Yes.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over the two men. Van felt somehow uneasy. He wasn’t used to psychs, and had never held a lengthy conversation with one. Moore seemed to be experiencing the same discomfort. They sat and stared at each other while a few long minutes dragged their feet laboriously through a field of molasses.

Finally, in desperation, Van asked, “So how’s the psych business these days?”

Moore shrugged broad shoulders. “Not too good. Not for a Vike man, anyway. The Ree boys seem to be getting all the work.”

Van wondered if he were kidding, but he didn’t express skepticism. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“It’s a question of finding a norm,” Moore said slowly.

“I still don’t groove.”

Moore spread his palms wide. “I was taught in a Ree school, Van. Got my B.A. from a Ree college, my M.D. from a Ree medical school, and all my specialized training at Ree clinics. The emphasis was a little different.”

“How so?”

“Great God Freud. Chew a cigar? You were weaned too early. Wash your hands often? You’re a mastur. Glove anesthesia? You’ve got a guiltplex. You know the Ree pitch.”

“So?”

“So along comes the Vikes. And everybody flees into a dream world. Your norm is kicked to hell.”

Van didn’t say anything because he still didn’t know what the psych was talking about.

“Look at it this way,” Moore continued. “You establish a pattern. The majority of people don’t go around picking their noses on duo-pneumotubes. All right, this is the norm. You get a guy who does pick his nose in public — he’s a delegate for a booby bin. But what happens when the norm is reversed? What happens when everyone seeks the world heretofore reserved for the schizoid? Who’s normal then? And how do you treat the person who isn’t?”

“Are you saying that Vikes are...” Van forced the words out, “...mentally unbalanced?”

Moore smiled thinly. “I’m a Vike myself. It’s been ten years since I’ve touched a woman or wanted to touch one. I was a morphict for three years, a herrict for four, and I’ve been on Corradon for the last three, ever since it hit the market. My biggest charge is the Sensos, but I’m not above a cheap kick from the pabacks. A wild tape still gets a rise out of me. I know all the tricks and all the gimmicks, and I haven’t opened my mouth in public, Lord knows. I’ve even come along with the language, which was probably the hardest part. Who am I to say Vikes are nuts?”

Van was beginning to get a little irritated. “What are you saying then?”

“I’m not saying anything. I came here tonight for the same thing you did. Something like a cat house, isn’t it?”

“Listen, Moore...”

“All right, you don’t like what I’m saying. I don’t much like it, either. I keep thinking about tomorrow, though. And the tomorrow after that. And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. What’s the step beyond schizophrenia? Or mania? I’m afraid its catatonia — and that means doom.” He saw the look on Van’s face. “I’m not using it in the Vike sense, Brant. I mean doom. Plain old doom. The end. Finis. Pffft!”

“You through?”

“Sure, sure, I’m through. I understand that Deb has some new stuff at the bar.” He stood wearily and his eyes met Van’s for an instant, and then fled into their own retreat. “Maybe I’ll try some. So long, Brant.”

Brant closed his eyes for an instant, and suddenly there was a cool hand on his bare flesh, and the heady aroma of Lizbeth’s perfume in his nostrils.

He shrugged her hand away. “Don’t paw me,” he said. “Sorry, father. You look sad. Want to pop?”

“No.”

Liz giggled. “I’ve got a confession. I already did. The new stuff. It’s doom, Dad. Whoo!”

“I want solo,” he said. “Take a powder.”

“Sure, Van. They’re starting a round of Coverup, anyway, and I want to get in on it.”

“Have fun,” he said.

“Grooved.”

She turned and walked away from him, her hips swiveling, her high heels clicking against the marble floor. Van looked across the room to the bar, saw Walt elbow his way free, straighten his hair, and start over toward him. Van stood up, walked to meet Alloway halfway, and said, “Let’s step outside, Walt. I don’t want this tapped.”

“You act like a Martian spy.”

“How the hell would you know what a Martian spy acts like?”

“I read the sci-fi. Interesting.”

“That Ree junk?”

“It’s their one salvation,” Walt said, grinning crookedly.

They’d reached the balcony, and Van yanked open the manual door, stepping outside into the night. A mild breeze played over the balcony, and Deborah had covered the place with rose bushes that oozed their perfume onto the mild air, with a probable assist from a hundred hidden odophones.

“So what’s the big one?” Walt asked.

“Are you in?”

“I can’t draw blind,” Alloway said. “You’ve got to sneak-speak first.”

Van weighed this, estimating the gamble, and then decided he could trust Walt no matter what his final decision would be. “A new Senso,” he said. “So big you can’t imagine, Walt. Individual Sensory Experiences. Individual, Walt! A man sees, feels, smells one thing; a woman another. Walt it’s gigantic. It’s like nothing we’ve got. I’m sinking all I own into it. I need scribes.”

Alloway screwed up his black brows. He was a moment before answering. “You like it?”

“Yes.”

“I’m in.”

“Just like that?”

“My friend, before you took me into the fold, I was writing for the pabacks. I made an average of fifteen gee a year, and you know how far that gets you. You came on the scene then. Last year, I stacked close to half a stone. This year, with six months to go yet, I’ve made that much already. I’ve never made a move you didn’t suggest, and you’ve never suggested a move that wasn’t right.” Walt shrugged, a little overwhelmed by his own sincerity. “You say this is big, it’s big. You say I should get into it now, I get into it now. That’s the way it is, Van. That’s the kind of stupid bastard I am.”

Van grinned in the darkness. “That’s Ree talk, Walt.”

“All right, change it to ‘stupid illidge.’ It’s still the way I am, so let’s go inside and get into the Coverup. Hell, this is a dull party.”

Van clapped Walt on the shoulder, starting to head back to the party, and that was when he noticed how unusually quiet it was inside. Alloway must have detected the lack of sound at about the same time, because he turned to Van with a puzzled expression on his face. They both knew Coverup was usually a pretty noisy game during the dressing stage. The stripping half was so quiet you could hear a pin drop, but hardly enough time had progressed for the game to have been in that stage yet. As if by common consent, they both ran for the doors and into the room.

The first person Van saw was Deborah. Her face showed pale even through the blue tint. He was starting toward her when a voice shouted, “Hey, here’s two more of the bastards.”

He whirled rapidly, and then he understood the silence in the large room.

They stood in the center of the marble floor, four Rees, smug grins on their faces. They were fully clothed, of course, wearing shirts, ties, jackets, flapping trousers, hats. The apparent leader of the group, the one who had spoken, looked younger than the rest. His blond hair tumbled recklessly over his forehead, and his eyes insolently roamed the room, studying the naked bosoms of the women.

Van walked over to Deborah and asked, “Crashers, or did you invite them?”

“My God, Van,” she said. “Please!”

“What’s all the talk over there, Chesty?” the blond boy called.

Van turned and looked at him, and the Ree’s friends formed behind him in a tight semi-circle.

“You talking to me, son?”

“Yeah, you with all the hair on your chest, and the shiny muscles. What’s with you and Big Bust there?”

Deborah glanced self-consciously at her breasts, feeling the lust in the blond youth’s eyes. Van felt embarrassed for her, and he started across the room.

“Oh, look,” the blond shouted, “a hero in the crowd.”

Brant walked right up to him, and he heard Walt padding across the floor behind him. The Ree was as tall as Van, with well-rounded muscles beneath the rough cloth of his jacket. His eyes were slate-grey, and he carried his mouth like an open-switch knife.

“Are you looking for trouble, son?” Van asked.

The Ree grinned and nudged one of his pals in the ribs. “Listen to shiny skin,” he said. “Yeah, mister, we’re looking for trouble.”

“You came to the right place,” Van said softly. He heard Alloway pull up alongside him, but he did not turn his head. The room was deathly silent.

“Hey, look at the blond hair and black eyebrows,” one of the Rees said, indicating Walt. “That takes it, boy.” He began laughing, and they all joined in. Van didn’t think it was very funny.

“You’d better go,” he said. “You’d better go damned fast.”

The blond boy thought that was hilarious. “Why?” he asked. “You gonna show me a movie or something?”

“Oh,” Van said, “I dig now.”

The Ree laughed again, sure of himself now. “Listen to the tough Vike, boys. He gets all his fights from the stereos and Sensos; that’s the way he enjoys his fights.” He turned a sneer on Van. “You’re scarin’ me to death, mister. Honest.”

“Grooved,” Van said. “You figure because we get our action vicariously, we don’t know how to get it any other way. That right?”

“Yeah,” the Ree said quickly. He turned to one of the boys then and said, “Hey, you know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna grab one of these nude babes and show her what a real...”

That was when Van’s fist collided with his mouth.

He felt the lip split, and then the sharp edge of the Ree’s teeth knifed into the skin on Van’s knuckles. A blossom of blood sprouted on the boy’s mouth, and he brought his hand up to his lips in surprise and sudden terror. Brant slammed his other fist into the open hand; the Ree backed up a few paces, and Van jumped after him. He heard the boy’s pals yell something and grab for him; then Walt Alloway stepped into the picture and started throwing his weight around a little.

Van gave the Ree a pop in the eye that sent him staggering back to land on his seat. He was ready to stand up again when Van lashed out with his boot and caught him on the point of his chin. After that, he wasn’t ready to do anything. Brant turned quickly, about to take on another one, when he saw Rog Moore run across the room and tear one of the Rees from Walt’s back. Van threw himself headlong at the closest Ree and began throwing fists at his head. He wasn’t used to this because it had been a long time since he’d had any practice, arid he realized he was probably very bad at it. But he was filled with a hatred big enough to blow the roof off the building, and he poured all that hatred into his fists and his feet. He kept hitting until the breath was raging in his lungs. And then he stopped because the opposing flesh had already crumpled. He stood back then and looked around him at Bruce and Rog, and then at the inert Rees on the floor.

“Let’s get them out of here,” he said hoarsely.

They dragged the Rees to the front door and threw them into the lift, setting the tabs for the first level. The lift dropped out of sight with its cargo, and they went back into the room.

Deborah rushed over to Van and said, “You were wonderful, darl.”

“Those rotten bastards,” he said. Illidge simply wasn’t strong enough, so he unconsciously reverted to the Ree terminology. “Those filthy...”

“If they come back,” Walt said, “they’re dead. So help me, they’re dead, Van. Dead.” His hands were trembling as he spoke, and there was a smear of blood stretching from his temple to his jaw. A murmur of conversation sprang up around the room now, and someone put on a tape in an effort to relieve the strained atmosphere.

“Can we wash up, Deb?” Van asked.

“Yes. Yes, of course. Come with me.”

They followed her, and she dropped Rog and Walt off at the hall bathroom, and then led Brant to the private bathroom in her own bedroom. She sat on the bed while he washed, and talked to him through the open bathroom door. Van let water in the sink and then plunged his hands into it, watching it turn red with blood.

“This makes me wonder,” Deborah said.

“About what?”

“About whether I’m doing... about whether what I’ve been thinking of doing is right or not.”

“I’m lost, Deb.” Van splashed water onto his face, feeling it sting the cuts there.

“I think I... want to have a baby, Van.”

“What!” He jerked upright and looked at her, his face and hands dripping water onto the floor.

“Yes. I think I want to very much.”

“Why?”

“Well... I’m just tired of... of Sensos and... you know, all of it. I want something new.”

“Who’s the lucky man?” Van asked sarcastically, dipping into the water again.

“Van, don’t make me retch. It won’t be that way at all.”

“No?”

“No.” She smiled playfully. “There are only three men I’d even consider that with anyway. And then only if I went Ree.”

“Who?” Van asked.

“Jamie Grew. Know him?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think you would. I knew him when I was a girl.”

“Who else?”

“Rog Moore.”

“Oh.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. But I’ll bet he’s the illidge who talked you into this.”

“Well, in a way.”

“Who’s the third man?”

“You.”

Van snorted and rinsed off his face. “Well, honey, you’re barking up the wrong three.”

“I’m only joking; I’d go to the clinic, of course.”

“Mmm?”

“Yes. In fact, I’m thinking of enrolling in the next Inseminar.”

Van snapped on the ultra-vi and stepped into the field, rubbing his hands as the rays dried him. “That’s the next step above a Ree,” he said. “Next thing you know, you’ll be mating in an alley.”

“Van, for godsakes! You say the damndest things.”

“Well, it’s the truth.” He shrugged. “Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Yes. I haven’t told anyone yet, not even Rog. I wanted to hear what you thought of it.”

“Well, now you know.”

“And I’m going to do it anyway.”

“Go right ahead. Your womb, your tomb.” He stepped out of the field and snapped off the ray. He looked down at his torn breeches. “I don’t suppose you’ve an extra pair in the house.”

“No. Sorry.”

“Didn’t expect you to.” He tried to pull the tear together, gave it up as a sorry job, and said, “I wanted to talk to you, too, Deb.”

“What about?”

“Money.”

“What about money?”

“I need a stone. Can you lend it to me?”

“Are you in trouble?”

“No.”

“Then why do you need that much moo?”

“I need it.”

Deborah hesitated. “I might be able to scrape it together.”

“How soon?”

“How soon do you need it?”

“Immediately.”

“That gives me a lot of time,” she said snidely.

“All right, six months. No later.”

“That’s a little better.” She smiled. “In six months, I should be pregnant.”

“Must we talk about that?”

“No, of course not. I’ll have the money for you, Van. Is that better?”

Van grinned. “That’s much better.”

Deborah rose, brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from her breast and said, “Done. Shall we join the party?”

Chapter 5

The buzzer on his desk sounded and Brant clicked on, looking up from the morning’s mail.

“Yes?”

“A gentleman to see you, Van.”

“Name?”

“Don Keller.”

“I don’t know him,” Van said. “Vike or Ree?”

“Vike.”

“What does he want?”

“Says he had a script accepted by Colum, but they want revision. Doesn’t know where to cut, add, pad. Needs help.”

“Are you sure this thing was accepted? He’s not heaping snow, is he?”

“No, Van, it’s the goods; he showed me the letter of acceptance on Colum’s letterhead. A fourteen-clam advance.”

Van automatically calculated his ten-percent commission and then said, “All right, send him in.”

He cleared his desk and then waited for the inner door to slide open. When it did, it revealed a tall Vike in deep blue breeches and metallic boots. He stepped into the room, grinned broadly and then walked to Van’s desk, extending his hand. “Mr. Brant,” he said. “A pleasure.”

“Mine,” Van answered, smiling. “Have a seat, won’t you?”

The Vike took the offered chair, resting his briefcase on his knees. He seemed vastly amused about something.

“Your name is Don Keller, is that right?”

“Yes, Mr. Brant.”

“My sec tells me Colum has taken on one of your scripts.”

“Yes, yes, that’s right.”

“And you’re having trouble making the changes they want?”

“Yes. I figured an agent could tell me just how to go about it.” Keller smiled. “You see, I haven’t been scribbling very long.”

Van nodded solicitously. “I understand.” He paused. “Do you have the script with you?”

“Why, yes,” Keller said, seemingly surprised. “You... you wouldn’t look at it now, would you?”

Van smiled. “I’ve got a few moments,” he said. “I’ll go over it carefully later, but I thought we might...”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Keller said. “That’s really wonderful.” He was already unsnapping the clasp on his briefcase. He threw the fold back, reached into the case, and came out with a manuscript bound in light blue leathron. Smiling bashfully, he put it on Van’s desk.

Van looked at the title. “Naked Sunburst, is that right?”

“Yes, sir,” Keller said.

“Sounds good. What sort of revisions do they want? Extensive?”

“Well, not really. That is, not too extensive.” Keller seemed amused again. “It’s just that I can’t make heads or tails of their letter.”

“Randall Phipps?” Van asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Is he the one who wrote you the letter? He’s top man at Colum.”

“Oh. Yes, yes, he wrote the letter. It’s right there, tucked into the manuscript, if you’d like to read it. Just forward of the dedication page.”

Van nodded and opened the leathron folder. He flipped two pages, and then spotted the envelope tucked between the title page and the dedication page. The envelope bore Keller’s name and address, and the flap had been tom open. “May I?” Van asked, reaching into the envelope. It seemed like a thick letter, and he wondered for a moment just how extensive the revisions would be.

“Please,” Keller said, smiling.

Van took the contents from the envelope and was unfolding the stiff paper when Keller suddenly rose.

“Well,” he said, “that’s that. Nice meeting you, Mr. Brant.”

“Huh?” Van asked, still not looking at the stiff paper.

“It’s just a job, Mr. Brant. No offense meant. I’ll see you in court.”

“What?” Van looked at the paper then, spotting it for a summons instantly. He slapped the summons against his open palm, shook his head, and then said, “You’re a clever illidge, aren’t you?”

“All part of the game.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, really.”

“Yeah. Who’s suing me?”

“Pelazi. Dino Pelazi. Know him?” Keller smiled again, and then headed for the door. “So long, Mr. Brant.”

The door slid open and Keller left. Van kept shaking his head, and then he smiled abruptly, admiring Keller’s careful subterfuge. He opened the summons and tried to decipher it, wondering just what the hell Pelazi had on his mind. He gave that up after a few moments and buzzed Lizbeth.

“Sir?”

“Get me Carson Fields, will you?” he said.

“Trouble, Van?”

“Just a Suzy Q, that’s all.”

“From whom?”

“Dino Pelazi.”

“What’s he suing about?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. Get Fields, will you?”

“Right away, Van.”

He clicked off and waited, looking at the ornate seal on the summons again. He tried to think of something he’d done to warrant a lawsuit. He could think of nothing, but if he knew the Rees, this would probably be some stupid thing that could be squashed in a minute. When Lizbeth connected him with Carson Fields, he was in fairly good spirits.

Fields was very fat. His face and body filled the screen, and he glared out from it like a constipated Buddha.

“Hello, Brant,” he said sourly.

“Carse,” Van said. “How goes it?”

“Stall the small, Van; I’m busy.”

“Right,” Van said, reflecting on the fact that Carson Fields was always busy, and never had time for small talk. Which was probably why he was one of the best lawyers in the country. “I’ve just had a Suzy Q dumped on me.”

“From whom?”

“Dino Pelazi.”

“Oh,” Fields said. “Another one.”

“What do you mean?”

“What’s he yapping about?”

“I thought you could help me there.” Van opened the summons. “Violation of Statute 431, Section 62-A.”

“Yeah, I figured. You’re the tenth who’s called.”

“What’s Statute...”

“Any date for the violation?” Fields asked.

“June thirty,” Van said.

“Ring a bell?” Fields asked.

“June thirty? Hell, I don’t know. June thirty, let me see.” He thought for a moment. “Could it...”

“Maybe I can refresh your...”

“Oh, the Benefit thing. Is that it?”

“You hit it, lad.”

“So? What the hell’s that got to do with Statute...” He consulted the summons again. “...431?”

“You have scribes working on that show?”

“Why, sure; every agent in town did. I still don’t get it.”

“Pelazi is on his horse, Van. He’s issuing summonses to every agent on the scene, literary, entertainment-even advertising — who were in any way connected with that benefit. He claims violation of Section 62-A of Statute 431.”

“I still don’t groove.”

“Don’t you know 431?”

“No, I don’t.”

“The Belly Statute. Hell, lad, you know that one.”

“Brief me.”

“The Rees rammed it through the minute they read the writing on the wall. They’d have got more in, but there wasn’t time. The Benefit was a live thing, wasn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“So, figure it for yourself. The only entertainment medium the Rees have sewed is the legit stage, and all because of the Belly Statute. It’s funny, too, because the legit stage was the only place you could get a few Vike kicks, back in the old days. Now all the kicks are canned, and you can’t get a live charge except...”

“Come on, dad, mainline it.”

“Okay,” Fields said. “Statute 431, Section 62-A, better known as the Belly Statute. Its roots: the Mayor La-Guardia regime in New York City. Mild legislation against grind joints, in the days when such ledge was needed. A damn good mayor, La Guardia.”

“I’m listening,” Van said.

“That was many moons ago, lad. The Rees seized on the old legislation when the power began to run out. They rammed through 431, tacked it up neatly with Section 62-A. The statute reads like a Puritan textbook. It makes the exposure of carefully defined parts of the human anatomy on any commercial stage in any public gathering place a crime against the citizenry.”

“Not against the government?”

“No, sir; not municipal, state or federal. It’s a crime against any private citizen who cares to press charges.”

“On what grounds?”

“Infringement on civil liberties.”

“Oh, horse man...”

“I didn’t write the law, Van; I only interpret it.”

“But civil liberties! That’s contradictory as hell.”

“Not when someone determined is using the statute.”

“What civil liberties? How the hell does a strip...”

“The Dignity of Man, Van.”

“What?”

“The Dignity of Man. The statute holds that an exposure of anatomy on any commercial stage is affronting the dignity of the audience. The parts of the anatomy are defined in detail, and they...”

“Which parts?” Van asked.

“On a female, the breasts, the navel, the rib cage, the crotch, the thigh and any portion of the leg above the knee, front view. Back view, the buttocks, the spine above the...”

“Oh, the hell with it. Has Pelazi got a case?”

“He has; if he can prove he was in the audience that night.”

“He had to be there, huh?”

“That’s right. And chances are he wasn’t.”

“Then why all the stink? Doesn’t he know we can prove he didn’t attend?”

“If he didn’t attend,” Fields said, “it might be tough proving it. If he was there, you’d better get ready to pay him whatever he wants.”

“But why me? I didn’t expose my leg above the knee.”

“That’s where 62-A comes in. It holds anyone in any way connected with the exposure as liable as the actual exposee.”

“Rocks,” Van said.

“That’s covered in the male definition of parts,” Fields said, unsmiling.

Van didn’t smile either. “So what do we do?”

“Give it a little time; let me gather my fold around me. I told you, you’re the tenth one I know who’s received the Suzy Q. Maybe we can bunch everybody together and try the case that way. A sort of group effort versus Dino Pelazi, the outraged citizen.”

“Do we have a chance?”

“Sure,” Fields said.

“And if we lose?”

“You pay the man.”

“This annoys me,” Van said. “It’s a goddamned nuisance.”

“Maybe that’s all Pelazi wants; the nuisance value.”

“How do you mean?”

“He’ll be tying up just about every agent in town. By the time this gets to court, by the time we get a case set... well, it’s going to cut into your time a little, lad. Same as everyone else’s.”

“Yeah,” Van said. “You’ll take care of it, Carse?”

“Why, sure. Have no fear, Fields is here.”

“Grooved,” Van said. “Keep me in touch, yes?”

“Will do.”

“So long.”

Van clicked off, looked at the summons again, thought of Pelazi, and murmured, “I’ll bet this is all he has to do with his time.”

Chapter 6

Dino Pelazi cursed the old man silently, but there was a smile on his face that lent it a choir boy innocence.

The old man looked at the smile and nodded, and Dino nodded in return.

“So you are Dino Pelazi,” he croaked. His voice was withered and old, a drying waterhole on a desert, the skeleton of a boat on a barren stretch of beach. It creaked with its age, it stank with its age, it filled the room and the ears with its age. Pelazi winced slightly.

“Yes,” he said. “I am Dino Pelazi.”

The old man shifted in his chair, and Pelazi heard the dry rustle of his bones. Death was not far off for this one. Death watched over his shoulder, and breathed down his neck. Death lingered in the gnarled hands that curled greedily on the cane top. Death was in the eyes sunken deep in the skull-like face, and the odor of Death was rank on the old man’s breath.

“And you come to me, eh, Pelazi?” The eyes snapped with sudden life, sparking blueness into the sombre grey of the room. “Why?”

“You are a Ree, Mr. Kurtzman,” Pelazi said softly. You are the worst kind of Ree, he thought. A super-Realist.

“I am a Realist, yes,” Kurtzman said. “There are other Realists. Why me?”

There was shrewd intelligence in the blue eyes. The eyes crouched behind their lids like panthers waiting to pounce. The old man’s harsh breathing filled the room.

“We need help, Mr. Kurtzman,” Pelazi said. “You have helped the Rees before.”

“I have helped the Realists.” Kurtzman corrected. “I dislike these abbreviations, Pelazi; they dishonor the Realist.”

“Your pardon,” Pelazi said, deferentially. “You are, then, a Realist.” And a dirty bastard Ree, he added silently. “We need your help. Realists everywhere need your help.”

“My help, eh?” Kurtzman cackled. “Me, eh? An old man. You know how old I am, Pelazi?”

“No, sir.”

“Eighty-seven, Pelazi. You know any Vikes live that long, eh? You know any Vike still around at eighty-seven?”

“No, sir.”

Kurtzman nodded his head, and his eyes wandered into their private revery. He’s an old man, Pelazi thought. Be patient. He has what you want.

“Know why I’m still around, Pelazi?” Kurtzman’s eyes narrowed shrewdly.

“No, sir.”

“Plenty of women,” he said. He saw the surprised look on Pelazi’s face and slapped his open palm onto his knee. “Yessir,” he said, enjoying the joke, “plenty of Grade-A wenches.” He nodded in self-satisfaction. “And another thing, Pelazi.”

Pelazi steeled himself. “What, sir?”

“Sales resistance. Against people like you.”

“I think, Mr. Kurtzman...”

“Isn’t anybody in this world hasn’t got something to sell!” Kurtzman snapped, holding up his hand. The hand unsnapped suddenly, a forefinger pointed at Pelazi’s nose. “You’re no different. You’ve got something to sell, too.”

Pelazi stood up. “Yes,” he said. “Survival.”

“How’s that?” Kurtzman was surprised. “Sit down, Pelazi. Sit down.”

“I’ll stand. I’m selling survival, Mr. Kurtzman. For you and your children and your grandchildren. Survival because we damn well need it.”

“Survival, eh? I’m eighty-seven years old now, Pelazi. I’ve done all right so far. I don’t need any young...”

Pelazi slammed a clenched fist into the open palm of his other hand. “You do! Because you and your generation have made a goddamn sorry mess of things, and now it’s up to us to pick up the pieces. No, don’t get up, Mr. Kurtzman. Hear me out.”

Kurtzman had begun to sputter, but he subsided and studied Pelazi with renewed interest. His blue eyes flashed, and his hands tightened on the head of his cane.

“It’s a Vike world,” Pelazi said. “It’s a...”

“It isn’t!” Kurtzman shrieked.

“How would you know? You sit here in your plush library and dream about the old days and the women you’ve had. I’m out there, Mr. Kurtzman, and I tell you it’s Vike. It’s Vike, and it stinks!”

“Young man, I won’t take this sort of talk from...”

“Don’t then!” Pelazi shouted. “Have me kicked out. Go ahead, ring for your butler and have him toss me into the gutter. You can do it. But I’ve got survival here, Mr. Kurtzman.” He extended a balled fist. “Right here. Right here in the palm of my hand.” He shook the fist. “You’ve had a good life, an easy one. It won’t last a hell of a lot longer if the Vikes keep moving. And they will, Mr. Kurtzman. As sure as you’re sitting there, they will. And someday you’ll wake up and find yourself in the gutter, and all this will be a Stereohouse for the Vikes.”

Kurtzman’s mouth cracked in a thin smile, and Pelazi threw a forefinger at him. “Don’t laugh! By God, don’t laugh, because it’s serious. It’s the most serious thing that’s ever happened, and I’ve got a plan for stopping it. Only me, Mr. Kurtzman. Dino Pelazi. I can stop them, but I need your help. You and a lot of other Rees like you.”

The smile vanished from Kurtzman’s face. He stared at Pelazi, and Pelazi thought, This is it. I either get kicked out or I get what I want.

The two men stared at each other for a long while. Kurtzman’s eyes wandered, and Pelazi knew he was thinking of times gone by, of Realist times with women, of power, and the slow dissipation of that power. Pelazi knew he was thinking all this, and he studied the old man, and almost prayed. And then Kurtzman’s eyes snapped back to Pelazi’s face.

“What do you want, Pelazi? Name it!” His voice was firm. “Name it, and I’ll see. Name it.”

Pelazi smiled and leaned forward. “Money,” he said.

It was raining lightly when Van Brant stopped by for Liz that night. His call was unexpected, and she was surprised to see him.

“Van! What brings?”

“Things. Want to see a Senso?”

“Well...” She indicated her pale breasts, her unmade face.

“Throw on anything. We’ll go to a local.”

“All right. I’ll be a minute. Have you fixed?”

“A little while ago, thanks.”

“Well, the bar’s open. Help yourself if you want to.”

“Thanks.”

He walked around the apartment aimlessly, pausing at the bar and studying the silver vials laid end to end inside. Neat. Liz was a good secretary. Neat in everything she did. He lifted a vial of opaine, tempted to try it. He shook his head, replaced it in position, and closed the top of the bar. Straight, no mate. Better that way.

He tried to keep his mind off Hayden Thorpe and the new project. That was one of the reasons for stopping in at a show tonight. He knew he couldn’t do anything until he had the moo, and that might take some time. He disliked inactivity of any sort. Now that he knew about the project, he wanted to get started on it Instead, he had to wait.

Waiting reminded him of Liz. He looked at his wrist-chron and called, “Hey, mother, no major paint job.”

“No slob job, either,” she called back. “Be with you in half a second.”

It was a full seven minutes before Liz emerged from the bedroom. As she’d promised, she hadn’t done a major job: Breasts and lips. She’d expertly smeared a dazzling a galaxy of crescents onto her chest, cupping her nipples with two dark blue caps. Van looked at the caps in amusement.

“It’s drizzling,” he said, “but it’s not cold.”

She smiled. “Is it raining hard?”

“Why? Does that stuff run?”

“Perish it,” she said. “Come on, let’s go.”

They left the apartment, and on the way down in the lift, she said, “I could use a Senso; I’m just in the mood.”

“Well, good.”

“Are you?”

“I want to take my mind off other things.”

“Bad? Sad?”

“Mad.”

They walked side by side, not touching each other. They passed a Ree couple, the boy with his arm around the girl’s waist. Van lowered his eyes, and Liz turned her head in disgust.

“Rabbits,” she said viciously. Van didn’t answer. When they reached the Sensohouse, he bought two tickets and then led Liz into the darkness. They found seats together and leaned back against the foam. The film reached out for their senses.

They did not speak to each other during the show. They were not even aware of each other’s existence, nor of the people seated everywhere around them. They surrendered completely to the images that surrounded them, allowed the make-believe to take hold of their bodies, their minds, allowed emotions to reel staggeringly into their consciousness.

Their blood quickened, and their hearts beat faster, and they felt the accustomed tightening within them, the craving, the deep hungering. The images flickered before them, and the hunger mounted, grasped at their bodies with clawing fingers. Higher and higher, with the music keening to them from the wall speaks, the odophones intoxicating their nostrils, and always the images, the men and the women, the actions, the hunger growing until it was an ache that threatened to tear the body apart. And then the satisfaction, like a plunge through a crystal clear lake, with the lungs reaching desperately for respite, the body trembling, the surface of the water splitting like a thousand fragile mirrors, and the clean sweet release of air rushing, rushing, rushing, and the expansive stretch of white sand with the sun baking tired muscles, warm and embracing.

They leaned back and rested, still not acknowledging the presence of one another. The wall speaks issued soft music, and they gathered strength, composing their spent emotions.

At last, Van turned to her. “There’s another feature, Liz.”

“No more,” she said. “Not tonight. I’d like a fix.”

“All right. There’s a Stop ’N’ Pop in the neighborhood. We can walk it.”

They left quietly, each content. He was glad he’d decided on a Senso. He’d completely forgotten Thorpe and the project, and now that it intruded on his memory again, he wished he had talked Liz into staying for the second go.

The Stop ’N’ Pop was brilliantly aglow with neon. The lighted tubes shouted their wares to the sky: HEROIN * COCCAINE * OPIUM * BARBS * MARIJUANA * BENZEDRINE * MORPHINE * MIXTURES

And in big red letters: ** CORRADON **

“Here we go,” Van said.

He glanced at his wrist-chron. It was close to happy time, anyway, so it didn’t matter if he grabbed a pop now. The place was crowded, which was to be expected in a predominantly Vike neighborhood. He shoved his way to the counter, wishing he’d invited Liz up to his place instead, where they could have popped in comfort.

What was she on, anyway? Opaine? Herro-coke? These damn mixers annoyed the hell out of him.

A bleary-eyed clerk moved up to the counter. “What’ll you have, sir?”

“Vial of morph, and one of opaine. This stuff clean?”

“The cleanest, Mac; we’re Guv inspected.”

“Okay, snap it up.”

The clerk reached for the neatly stacked vials behind him, passing two to Van. “Toss them in the receptacles when you’re through, will you?”

“Grooved.”

Van paid the clerk and walked back to Liz. She stood near the swab dispenser, and she had already secured the alcohol-soaked cotton wads for herself and Van.

“Get it?” she asked.

“I hope you’re on opaine.”

“That’s my kick, Dick.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

He handed the mixed drug to her, and she quickly swabbed the inside of her thigh, kicking her thin skirt aside.

“Happy,” he said.

“Ditt.”

She fired and an exultant look took her face. “Oh, God,” she said. He watched the vial as it kicked the drug, each new spurt sending a violent spasm through her body. He swabbed his arm and popped off when the gauge clicked. It wasn’t happy time, but he enjoyed it anyway.

“I needed that,” she said.

“These Sensos leave you limp,” he agreed.

He took the empty vials, brought them to the receptacle and dropped them in. When he walked back to Liz, she was leaning against the swab dispenser, and her eyes were glazed.

“Hey,” he said, “what brews?”

“Whoo, that was powerful.”

“Guv inspected, the clerk said.”

“But strong. Mother!”

“Let’s walk it off.”

She nodded blankly. The drizzle had begun again, touching their faces lightly. They walked slowly, enjoying the rain and the power of the drug. They did not see many Rees in the streets. This was a residential level, inhabited mostly by Vikes. The lights in the shop windows blinked at them, and Van began to really feel the strength of the drug. It had been powerful, much stronger than he was used to, and it distorted the streets, made the passing cars look like speeding tear drops, joined the lights in a wild medley of streaks against the sky.

When he heard the shouting, he thought it was the effect of the drug. It started in a dim corner of his mind, started with the repeated word, “Rabbit!”

He shook his head, and the shouting persisted, and more words joined it. The words ran together like molten lead. “Ree... rabbit... ree... rabbit... rrrrabbbittt... rrreeeebbbitttt...”

And then the shouting exploded, and he opened his eyes wide.

“Ree!”

“REE!”

A boy darted from behind one of the buildings, passed no farther than three feet from Van. Van backed away instinctively, felt Liz’s hand tighten on his arm, shook it away.

The boy was a Ree. He wore long trousers, and a flapping shirt. His hair was mussed, falling into his eyes, and the eyes bore the unmistakable stamp of fear. He darted past them, ran into the gutter. A speeding car swerved aside, and the boy curved around it, leaped the barrier into the low-speed lane.

Another group of boys erupted from the mouth of the alley alongside the building. Vikes. Twenty of them. Young kids, with hair in sparse patches on their chests. Tight breeches. Shouting, “Reel Ree! Ree!”

The Ree turned, and the fear was large on his face now. It showed in his eyes, and in the grim set of his mouth, and in the whiteness of his face. A slowing car pulled aside, and the boy turned to run.

The Vikes were in the speed lane now. They waited while a car rushed by, and then they started after the Ree again.

“Van, what is it?” Liz said. Her hand was on his arm again.

“A Ree,” he said blankly.

“But... but what are they doing?” Her eyes were still glazed from the drug. Her mouth hung slackly, and she stared at Van in confusion.

The robot policeman on the comer lifted a mechanical hand, and a red light gleamed hotly in his metal chest. A car slowed to a stop, and the Ree looked at it frantically and then ran to it. He clawed at the door handle, found it locked. Van saw the driver edge away from the door, saw his hands tighten on the wheel. The light was still red.

“Mister, open up, please!” the Ree pleaded.

The driver glanced at the robot. The red light looked back at him. He looked again at the white-faced boy outside his car. He gave it the gun. The car lurched ahead, and the Ree clung desperately to the door handle. He lifted his feet, scrabbling for a hold on the smooth, shining surface of the car. His feet dropped to the pavement, and Van heard the angry scrape of his shoe soles against the ground. The driver slammed the car into whirl, and it shot ahead through the red light, ignoring the camera that automatically photographed its license tab. The Ree clung to the handle until his trouser legs were shredded, and then he released his grip and dropped to the concrete. The car surged off into the distance, its atomic engine whining.

“He’s down!” one of the Vikes shouted.

They leaped the barrier into the low-speed lane, and Van saw now that they were carrying sticks, and bottles, and open knives.

“Oh God,” Liz said hoarsely. “Van, what is it?”

Van watched in horror as one of the Vikes lifted a bottle and brought it down on the boy’s head. The Ree got to his knees, began crawling away. A Vike kicked him in the ribs, and he fell to the concrete again. They were all around him now, shouting, laughing, cursing. Van saw the garbage can then.

He saw it in the hands of a big Vike boy. He saw the can go up over the boy’s head, high, higher, and sudden realization knifed through him.

“No!” he tried to shout. The word came through his lips like a parched whisper instead. He took a step forward, and felt the strong pressure of Liz’s hand on his arm.

“Van don’t. They’re wild. They’ll...”

The Ree screamed, up, down, and the screams hung on the air, rending the night, up, down, up, down. Vikes shouted and cursed and the Ree’s screams faded and died until they became part of the murmur of the crowd.

Van stood rooted to the spot, a sick revulsion inside him. He had wanted to help the Ree. Or had he? He wondered now if he’d have gone to the Ree’s aid if Liz hadn’t stopped him. He wondered, and the doubt gnawed at his mind.

The wail of a siren climbed into the night sky. The police. And too late, Van thought. The Vikes began running, mingling with the crowd, leaving the Ree in the center of the lane. A line of cars slowed, pulled aside and stopped to let the police cars through.

Van looked at the broken, crumpled body on the pavement.

Liz began trembling. “Let’s go, Van. Please, let’s go.” Her body shook, and her breast shook, and her chin shook. Her eyelids blinked. “Please!”

He allowed her to take his arm. They walked rapidly, not turning to look back at the crowd dispersing before the shouts and gestures of the two policemen. Two Vike boys were walking in front of them. Van heard a young voice say, “Did you see me pop that illidge with the bottle?”

The other boy laughed, and Van felt Liz’s fingers curl on his arm.

They did not speak at all on the way home. When he’d dropped Liz off at her place and was back in his own apartment again, he shot up three vials of morph, enough to send him to bed blind.

Chapter 7

Jo Houston called Brant at the office the next day, shortly after noon. Van had almost forgotten the Ree incident by that time, though not quite. He had awakened late this morning, still feeling loggy from the triple fix the night before. He remembered the fix, but he couldn’t put his finger on the exact impulse that had prompted it. The Ree boy had still been vivid in his mind when he showered and depilled. After a light breakfast, the image had begun to fade. He’d taken a late fix, and then gone to the office.

He sat now and looked at Jo’s troubled face, his weary eyes. For a moment, he thought Jo had gone without a fix, but then he noticed the empty vial on his accountant’s desk.

“What is it, Jo?” he asked.

“I’m having a rugged go, Van.”

“Spell it.”

“Your holdings. I can’t get rid of them.”

Van looked at Houston’s face hard, to see if he was kidding. “What the hell are you talking about, Jo?”

“The stuff. No buyers.”

“No buyers? Hop down, father, and jest me not! I’m in no mood for...”

“Bible, Van, so help me. I’ve been shagging since God only. The market’s dim.”

“Then you haven’t been shagging hard enough. What the hell’s the matter with you, Jo? The stuff I’ve got is the hottest you can get today.”

“Maybe.”

“Listen, shoot it to me straight.”

“All right.” Jo began ticking the points off on his fingers.

“Item A: three hundred shares Sappho Stereos. Dead ducks.”

“How so?”

“No buyers. Hold it, Van, don’t blowtop. I tried everywhere, and I mean everywhere. Something’s in the wind.”

“What?”

“Who knows? Fear. You can read it in their eyes.”

“What kind of horse are you peddling? Fear? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I don’t know, Van; just an impression. You know what I mean?”

“No.”

“Well anyway, there were no buyers. I couldn’t even sell them for a fifty percent loss.”

“You mean you offered that?”

“As a last resort. Van, the market is tighter than a Ree’s necktie.”

“More, father.”

“Item B: twenty-two shares Arbac Press. Dead ducks. I shopped all over town. No one’s interested.”

“That’s impossible! Arbac is one of the best paback outfits in the field. You sure this isn’t a gag, Jo?”

“I never kid where it concerns money,” Houston said seriously.

“All right. Read it.”

“Item C: fifty-seven shares Dale Cosmetics. I got rid of twenty. You know what you can do with the other thirty-seven.”

“What’d you raise?”

“One.”

“A thousand? For twenty shares of Dale? Jo, are you losing your marbles?”

“I didn’t say a thousand. I said ‘one.’ One hundred, Van. One clam. Count it.”

“One clam! Look, Jo...”

“I’m lucky I got that. You’ve got no idea what it’s like, Van. So help me. I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like it? You don’t like it? It’s only my money you’re throwing around, that’s all. It’s only...”

“Cool, Van.”

“Cool my big keester! Listen, Jo, you’re paid to handle my affairs. If I ever made a deal like that for one of my clients, I’d be hanged in Times Square the next day. What the hell do you think this is, Parchesi?”

“Van, I tell you...”

“You tell me, horse! I’m telling you, goddamnit. And you’d damn well better listen. I’ve got stock worth at least eighteen hundred gee. All I want is nine hundred gee, and a good man should be able to raise that. If you’re not a good man, you’re not the man for me. There are approximately eight thousand accountants in this city, Jo, and...”

“Easy, Van, easy. I’m...”

“Easy, nothing. I’ll give you until tomorrow; that’s Wednesday. If you can’t produce by then, you can close out my account and go back to filing income tax returns at fifty cents a throw!”

“That’s not fair, Van...”

“It may not be fair, but that’s the way it reads. I want at least five hundred gee by tomorrow. If you get that much, I’ll give you ’til Saturday to get the rest. If you can’t, good-bye Jo; it’s been, but it ain’t no mo.”

“Van...”

Brant clicked off before Houston could protest further, and then he went over to the bar and shot up a booster vial. When the buzzer on his desk sounded, he nearly tore off the switch answering. “Yes!” he shouted.

“Oouch!” Lizbeth said.

“What is it, Liz?” he answered harshly.

Her voice was surprised. “I did something, Van?”

“You did naught. You buzzing to be sociable, or have you got something on your mind?”

“Van...”

“Come on, Liz, I haven’t got all day.”

“Yes, sir.” Her voice was shocked now, and a little hurt. “You asked me to remind you about marketing at 1215. It’s 1225 now.”

“What about marketing?”

“There’s some stuff back; I thought you might want to remarket it.”

“Bring it in,” he snapped.

He walked to the window, thinking of the preposterous manner in which Jo was handling a simple thing like...

“Mr. Brant?”

Van whirled from the window. “Don’t be so damned formal. My name is still Van.”

“Sorry,” Liz said. She put a pile of manuscripts in thin plexoid folders on the desk. He walked over to them quickly, lifting the first script from the pile.

“This dog bounce again? Send it over to Arbac. Tell these illidges I own stock there, and they’d damn well better buy a few of these, or...”

“You really want me to say that?”

“Of course not; give them the usual pitch. If that one sells, I’ll eat it.”

He picked up the next manuscript. “What’s this?”

“Returned from Specialties, Inc. Bark Addams called on it. Said there wasn’t enough sex.”

“Listen, let this damned stuff wait for later; I’m not in the mood. Get me Lana Davis. Walt gave her the zero sign and I want to hold her foot.”

“All right,” Liz said. She walked toward the door, still obviously hurt by Van’s brusque treatment.

“Hey,” he called after her.

She turned. “Yes?”

“Take this junk with you. I don’t like a cluttered desk when I’m on the Vid. It looks sloppy. You should know that by now.”

“I’m sorry,” Liz said coldly. “It slipped my mind.”

She scooped up the manuscripts and walked stiffly to the door. Van sat at his desk, and in a few moments, Liz buzzed.

“I’ve got Miss Davis on six.”

“Thank you.”

Van clicked on and focused. Lana’s heart-shapped face filled the screen.

“Van, my God, do you know what Walt did, and right in the middle of a goddamned production who the hell does he think he’s dealing with some crumb who’s never been in the big city be...”

“Hold it, honey.”

Lana subsided, her breasts quivering with rage. “You’d better make it good, Van.”

Brant shrugged. “The guy’s a delegate for the hatch. I’ve got a better scribe for you.”

“Who?” Lana asked suspiciously.

“Clark Talbot.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Can I help it if you’re illiterate? You ever hear of Stolen Desire?”

“Vaguely.”

“He wrote it. I’ll send him up later. You talk to him. He’s a good man.”

“He’d better be. You hand me another lemon like Walt, and I’ll...”

“Cool it, hon. I’ll send him up. 1500 all right?”

“All right.”

“Fine. So long.”

“So long.”

Brant clicked off and began pacing the rug. He was still thinking of Houston’s blunder. “How the hell was a man supposed to get anything done when he was surrounded by idiots? Imagine selling twenty shares of Dale for a clam. A clam! And Jo called himself an accountant. A shoe shine boy could have gotten at least five, and...”

The buzzer sounded, and he reached for the instrument viciously.

“Yes!”

“There’s someone to see you, Van.”

“I’m not in.”

“She said it was important.”

“I’m still not in.”

“Sir, she...”

“Listen, Liz, do I have to send a diagram with everything I say? I’m not in! That goes for this chick, and the President, and even Dino Pelazi. I’m not in; I’m out. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine, fine. I’m glad I still speak English.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that all?”

“Y...”

“All right. Don’t disturb me for the next hour or so.”

He clicked off angrily. Of all the stupid things. First Jo with his admission of gross incompetence, and then a secretary who couldn’t keep an unwanted visitor away from her boss when he didn’t want company. And a man was supposed to conduct a business this way. A man was supposed to pretend everything was grooved, just blithely sail along until his nose smashed into...

The door behind him opened swiftly, and he turned with his fists clenched as it slid shut again.

“I thought I told you not to...”

The girl standing there was not Lizbeth. She was tall, with her red hair pulled to one side of her neck, trailing down over one bare breast. Her breasts were firm and high, concentrically ringed in various hues. Her stomach was bare and flat, etched with a deeply-shadowed navel. Her skirt was shorter than a good many skirts he’d seen, and she wore six inch spikes with ankle straps.

He stared at her for an instant. “Who the hell are you?” he shouted.

“Lois.”

“Who?”

“Lois Sylvan.”

“Do you know what doors are for, Miss Sylvan? They keep people out. I told my secretary I wasn’t to be disturbed; I wasn’t kidding. Now if you’ll swing your keester out of here, I’ll be much obliged.”

“I thought you’d be interested,” she said archly.

Van looked her over again. “You dress Vike,” he said, “but your talk is strictly Ree. Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”

“We’re even; I’m not selling.”

He looked at her again. “Am I supposed to know you or something? I’m not good at guessing games.”

“Lydia Silverstein,” she said quickly.

“Lydia wh...” He closed his mouth fast and looked her over again. Yes, the red hair was certainly hers, and the long legs, and... but...

“Well. You’ve changed.”

“My name, too. Not legally yet. I’ve assumed it by common law, and I’ve already got a shyst to bring it to court.”

“Good. So?”

“I’ve bared my... I’ve taken off my blouse, and I’ve shortened my skirt. I’m using cosmetics, and I tried... morphine today. I did just what you said.”

“So?”

“Well... I... I’m ready to begin.”

“Begin what?”

“You said...”

“Miss Silverstein, or Sylvan, or whatever-the-hell, this is not a Ree Convertorium. I run a business, and I don’t have to...”

“But you said...”

“I know what I said. I also told you to kick out your mate. Did you do that?”

His eyes began to cloud, and her lower lip trembled a little. “I... I didn’t have one!”

“Fine! You had nothing to lose then, did you? The fact remains that I can’t play father-confessor to every Ree who decides to chuck it all. Miss, I’m right now in the middle of something...”

She started to cry. Just like that. It had been such a long time since he’d seen any woman cry, that he almost didn’t believe it.

“Hey!” he said.

“Oh, shut up,” she blubbered.

“Well, look...”

“Don’t talk to me,” she said between sobs.

“Well, don’t cry,” he offered lamely. “Save that for the stereo-soaps. Come on now, Miss. Miss, you shouldn’t...”

“I did what you said,” she blubbered. “I did just what you said. Now I’m here, and I feel so cheap and so... so... naked, and you don’t even... you don’t even...”

He walked over to her and put his arm around her shoulder comfortingly. “Look, Miss, please don’t cry; there’s no need for that, really. Please, now, please.”

“I feel awful,” she whimpered. “I even got thrown out of my apartment.”

“There, there, I’ll help you. Don’t worry. I said I’d help you, and I will.”

“You will?”

“Of course I will. We can use good female scribes. I said I’d help, and I’ve never gone back on my word. I was just feeling sort of grumpy, that’s all.”

“You’ll really help me write?” she asked. She looked for a pocket in which she undoubtedly hoped to find a handkerchief, found none, and wiped her tears away with the back of her hand.

“Yes, I’ll help you write,” Bran said. “Yes, I most cert...” A thought hit him. Full-blown. It dropped right out of the air and into his head, and his eyes opened wide, and his mouth fell open. “Yes, by God,” he said. “Yes, I will!”

The thought had concerned a certain twenty gee being paid a certain Walt Alloway to scribe the show. And Hayden was looking to cut costs. Van grinned amiably and said, “Miss Sylvan... Lois... how would you like to earn a cool five gee?”

She blinked her long lashes, stared at him incredulously. “Five... five...?”

“Five gee. Five thousand skins. All yours. All for your hot little hands. How about it?”

She gulped hard. “For writing?”

“What else?” he asked.

For a moment, he thought she would faint. Instead, she gulped again, and her eyes were incredibly green and incredibly wet behind their thick lashes. She opened her mouth to answer, but when no words came, she simply nodded her head weakly.

“Fine!” Van shouted. “Terrific.”

He stabbed the button on his desk, and Liz came on.

“Sir?”

“Liz, honey,” he said warmly, “I want you to call Hayden Thorpe for me.”

“Sir?” Her voice brightened.

“I want you to call him, sweetness, and tell him I’ve got the two scribes he wanted. Tell him one of them is Walt Alloway, and reel off Walt’s credits to him... mention the After Dark thing, Liz. That was really big.”

She sounded quite happy now, almost as if she were smiling. “Yes, Van.”

“And then tell him I’ve discovered a fabulous new female scribe. Tell him she’s the greatest thing since transundies...”

“Van!”

“...the best damned scribe since Shakespeare, the biggest discovery since Corradon. Tell him she’s starting at once, and that I’ve had to go to five gee, but that she’s worth every penny. Tell him I’m clearing up the other details now, and that we’ll be ready to roll on Sunday.”

“Yes, Van.”

“And tell him, Liz; tell him her name is...” He snapped his fingers, and the redhead fluttered her eyelashes.

“Lydia,” she said. She sat up abruptly. “No, Lois! Lois Sylvan.”

“Lois Sylvan, Liz.”

“Lois Sylvan,” Liz repeated.

“Remember that name, Liz; remember it well. This little lady is going to have that name in lights soon. Lois Sylvan.” He tasted the words. “Magnificent.” He stood with his head cocked to one side for a brief moment, and then snapped, “Make that call now, will you, Liz, and double it!”

“Grooved.”

She clicked off, and Brant turned to the redhead.

“Well, Miss Sylvan,” he said, “this is the beginning. You’re on your way.”

Miss Sylan did not answer. Miss Sylvan was too busy holding her breath and giving herself a great big healthy mental pinch.

Hunt Laker was a literary agent who specialized chiefly in paperbacks. He had been drawn into the June thirtieth benefit strictly by chance, when one of his scribes — a recent addition to Lake’s stable — decided to write a bit for a chick with more frontage than brains. The chick stopped the show cold with the material Lake’s scribe had provided. Lake, as the scribe’s agent, had his name listed on the program, along with the other agents who’d contributed to the show. That listing had not added any moo to his dusty coffers, because the show was a benefit, and no one was paid for his services. The listing had, however, enabled Laker to become the reluctant recipient of something other than moo. And that something was a Suzy Q from Dino Pelazi.

He sat next to Van Brant on the hard wooden bench now, alternately belching and complaining. Van listened because there was nothing better to. do. He knew Laker only slightly, and he considered a man who specialized in paperbacks something of a pariah.

“What gets me,” Laker said, “is that I got absolutely naught from the whole bit. My scribe gets a pat on the back. The chick gets a chance to show frontage out of this world. She lands a spot on a good stereo because of that. Me, I get listed, and I get a Suzy Q.”

“Didn’t the scribe and the chick get them, too?” Van asked politely.

“Sure,” Laker agreed, “but you don’t groove me.”

“Straighten me then,” Van said.

“Gone,” Laker answered, nodding. “This is my point. My scribe got four paback offers after they saw what he did for that show. Four offers. The chick lands a stereo. Me, I get a Suzy Q.”

“You already said all this,” Van said. “Your scribe got a Suzy Q, and so did the chick. What’s your beef? You’re getting ten percent on the four pabacks, aren’t you?”

“Well, sure.”

“So stop batting the ball. You may get off without having to pay a cent.”

“That’s not my point,” Laker argued.

“Then what is your point, man?” Van asked. “Spit it out.”

“Hell, I don’t even know what the benefit was for!” Laker said. “I didn’t even go to the show. Now I’m getting sued; it isn’t fair.”

“The benefit was for a guy named Parke Reggery. He was once a top scribe, but he was blinded by a Ree fanatic who thought his work was degenerate. That’s who the benefit was for.”

“He doesn’t scribe any more?” Laker asked.

“No. He was a see it scribe; had to see that word appear on the page as he typed it. Couldn’t get used to audio methods.”

“Well,” Laker said sourly, “at least it was for a good cause.” He belched and Van turned his head away. “Still, I don’t see why I got a Suzy Q. Man, you know how many times I’ve been down here so far?”

“How many?”

“This makes four.”

“What?” Van asked, surprised.

“Yeah, yeah, four times. That cuts into your business, father. How can you keep your mind on an agency when you’ve got this damn thing hanging over your head.”

“Try Corradon,” Van said wearily. He thought over what Laker had told him, and then asked, “How come four times?”

“Do I know? Do I understand the law? I submit stuff to the pabacks. They send me contracts, and my scribes sign them. Do I ever get involved in lawsuits? Not me, not Hunt Laker. My nose is clean, Brant, believe me. Only once, some jerk maligned the president in a novel, and I missed it — mainly because I didn’t read the book before it went out. A rush job, you know, one of those things. Even then, it was the scribe got sued, and not me. I dropped him cold. So what do I know about the law? All I know is I’ve been here four times; and each time Pelazi was here, and each time they read off different charges, and Pelazi affirmed the charges. Man, I’m lucky if they don’t give me the chair for this. And all I did was say ‘Okay, write for the chick.’ That’s all.”

“Pelazi was here, you say?” Van asked.

“Sure. They read off the complaint, and then they ask if the complaint is correct. Pelazi stands there like some ghoul and he says, ‘Yes, the complaint is correct’ and then they let you go. The whole thing takes about five seconds. It’s this waiting that’s killing me. How am I supposed to run my business, sitting here in a courthouse?”

A man in uniform walked to the rail and said, “We are ready to verify complaints now. Will you step behind the railing when your name is called, show the recording clerk your summons, and then go directly to Room Fourteen? Thank you.” The uniformed man consulted a typewritten sheet, coughed, looked up, and then said, “Adams. Terr Adams.”

Laker belched. “You’re lucky, Brant; you got a B. I’m an L; I won’t get in there until midnight.”

“L of a thing,” Van said, and then he winced at his own pun. Laker didn’t even seem to notice. The uniformed man called off two more A’s, a B, and then he said, “Brant. Van Brant.”

Van rose and said good-bye to Laker, walking directly to the railing, opening the gate there, and then stepping behind it. He handed his summons to the recording clerk, and the clerk stamped it, and then checked off Van’s name on another typewritten list. He pointed toward a closed door, and Brant went to the door quickly, opening it manually, and stepping into a small room.

The room was bare, except for a desk and several chairs lined up on the wall opposite the desk. There was a bank of windows on one wall, and a man was seated in front of those windows, looking out, his back to Van. A second man sat at the desk, and Van walked to him, handed him the summons, and then waited.

The man studied it for a moment. He looked up disinterestedly, wet his lips, and said, “Dino Pelazi versus Van Brant, violation of Statute 431, Section 62-A, on June thirtieth. You are Van Brant, sir?”

“I am,” Van said.

“The charge is hereby repeated for verification by the plaintiff. Violation of Statute 431, Section 62-A, on June thirtieth. Is that correct, sir?”

“That’s...” Brant started.

The man seated at the window did not turn. He kept his back to Van, and said, “Yes, that is correct.”

“Are there no further charges?” the man at the desk asked.

“Not at this time,” the man at the window answered. “Plaintiff requests the right to further verify and validate the charges, as provided in Section 63-C on the Statute, before case is brought to trial.”

“Request granted,” the man at the desk said.

Van craned his neck for a better view of the man seated at the window. He could see nothing but a mane of white hair and a rather broad back.

“Is that Mr. Pelazi?” he asked.

“Yes,” the man at the desk answered.

Van turned toward Pelazi, his hands automatically moving to his hips. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Pelazi,” he said.

“Have you, Mr. Branoski?”

“Brant,” Van corrected.

“Brant, of course. Forgive me.”

“Do I get to see your face, or has that been censored by the Rees, too?” Van asked.

“I find the view here quite pleasant,” Pelazi answered. “Forgive me if I do not turn.”

“I’ve grown accustomed to Ree rudeness,” Van said stiffly.

“Then you certainly won’t mind a little more of it.”

“Do you really hope to win this case, Pelazi?”

“Naturally.”

“You haven’t a leg to stand on. I’m surprised at you, really, wasting your time like this. We’ll get a thousand people to swear you were nowhere near that benefit on June thirty.”

“And I’ll get one person to swear I was there all night. One person is all I need, Mr. Branoski.”

“Brant,” Van said more firmly.

“Brant, of course.”

“You must be pretty hard up, father,” Van said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“To pull a petty stunt like this one. All you’re doing is annoying us. Like mosquitoes. Like a bunch of mosquitoes bothering a lion. So you’ll disrupt our businesses for a while, so what? So you’ll take us away from them, and drag us down here while you verify and validate, and whatever the hell, so what? So you’ll bog us down in what you undoubtedly hope will be a long trial. So what? The trial will pass, too; if you win you’ve got a few hundred gee, and if you lose, you’ve got beans. In any case, we go right back to work again, as strong as ever.”

“Perhaps,” Pelazi said.

“No perhapses, Pelazi. Why don’t you smarten up? Why don’t you drop the whole thing, forget all this nonsense?”

“I prefer not to.”

“Why not?”

“That, Mr. Brant, is my business.”

“And my business is selling literary material, and your goddamned business is disrupting mine!” Van said heatedly.

“Mr. Brant,” Pelazi said, “I am not of a mind to argue my case outside the courtroom. You will have ample opportunity to establish your innocence when the time comes. In the meantime...”

“This has nothing to do with your case, Pelazi. I just don’t like your tactics, that’s all. And I don’t like your sitting there with your back to me. For two cents, I’d...”

“If you are innocent, Mr. Brant, if you indeed have not violated Section 62-A of Statute 431, then you have nothing to fear. If I’ve taken you away from your business, I’m sorry, but those are the rules of the game. And if your time is really quite so valuable, then shouldn’t you be leaving, rather than wasting it by talking to someone’s back?”

“You sap,” Van said. “We’re going to make you wish you never heard of the Belly...”

“Good day, Mr. Brant,” Pelazi said.

Van took a step forward, clenching his fists. He saw Pelazi’s back, saw the white hair above the high collar of the Ree’s shirt.

“Awh, go to hell,” he said. He turned on his heel and walked from the room.

Jo Houston called Van at thirteen that day, after Brant had killed most of the morning at the courthouse.

“Hello, Van,” he said. He was beaming broadly, and good news was scrawled all over his face.

“What’s the snap, Pap?”

“I’ve got a buyer.”

“Good. How much did you raise?”

“You sitting, Van?”

“Why?”

Jo grinned secretively. “How much did you want me to raise? For the lot, I mean.”

“You know how much. Stop catenmousing.”

“You wanted nine hundred gee, right? Well, I got a stone and two.”

“What!”

“A stone and two gee, that’s right. And I managed to buy back that twenty shares of Dale to toss into this package at a gain. Who’s the hottest accountant in town, boy?”

“A stone and two! Jo, how’d you do it?”

Jo smiled obliquely. “Trade secrets, son.”

“Well, who’s the buyer?”

“An outfit called Pall Associates.”

Van thought this over for a moment. “You mean Jerr Pall? That illidge will never make good, Jo; he hasn’t got a cent to his...”

“No, not Jerr Pall; this is a new outfit. I checked them thoroughly, Van. They’ve got more moo than Fort Knox.”

“You sure?”

“Positive; I saw their books. They’re loaded, Van.”

“A corporation?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not too good.”

“Why not? You say the word, and I’ll have their check in ten minutes.”

“A stone and two, huh?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Who’s behind the corp?”

“I couldn’t find out. Listen, their money is good; what the hell are you worried about?”

“I just don’t like doing business with shadows. Whom do I sue it the check hops?”

“It won’t hop; I’ll have it certified.”

“Mmmm.”

“What do you say, Van? This is damned good money. You said yourself you only expected to realize...”

“And I was shooting high,” Brant said, “just to get you to push.”

“So there. A stone and two is fabulous. Shall I close it?”

“Pall Associates, huh?”

“Pall Associates.”

“Okay, Jo, close it. I want the check by seventeen tonight, and certified. I’ll deposit it first thing in the morning. No delivery until I hear from the bank.”

“Even with a certified check?” Jo protested.

“I’m cautious, father.”

“Cautious? Father, you’re paralyzed!”

“Close the deal, Jo. And good work.”

“Thanks,” Houston said drily. “You’ll have the check by seventeen tonight. One stone and two. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Real. See you, Van.”

Chapter 8

“No, no, no!” Van shouted. He tossed his pencil onto the floor and stalked over to the bar. “You still haven’t got it! You’re still turning out Ree garbage, Lo. You’re back in the Middle Ages. You’re giving me Charles Dickens.”

“Dickens wasn’t in the Middle Ages,” Lois said coldly.

“All right, then you’re giving me Spenser.”

“He wasn’t...”

“I don’t give a damn what he was! This isn’t a seminar in English lit. That’s the whole damned trouble with you college broads. You read some junk by a guy who’s been dead for centuries, and he becomes your god. Nine times out of ten, half these guys couldn’t make livings as authors today.”

“I’m not making anyone my god,” she said. “And Spenser wasn’t...”

“Here we go again! You’re not giving me what I want. Is that clear?”

“I don’t think you know what you want,” Lois said. She sat in a chair with her long legs crossed, the skirt opened over her thighs. She wore no stockings, but a deep green garter set with a rhinestone circled the flesh of one leg. Her breasts were done in two golden sunbursts, and the echo of a small burst shaded her navel.

“I know what I need,” Van said. He opened his kit and selected a vial. “You’re enough to make a man mix, I’ll tell you that much.”

He popped off, closed his eyes for a moment, and then stared at her fixedly. “You had yours?”

“This morning,” she said. There was anger on her face. It smoldered in her eyes, put real color in her cheeks, pulled her brows together, swelled her lower lip into a pout.

“Have another,” Van said.

“No, thank you.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

He walked to the desk and slapped the back of his hand onto her script. “You think this is good, is that it? You think this is deathless prose. You think...”

She stood up abruptly, and her frontage bobbed with her sudden fury. “Yes, if you must know. I think it’s good. I think it’s better than any of the junk that Walt is turning out. In fact, I think it’s too good for...”

The buzzer on Van’s desk sounded, and he reached over to click on. Lois stamped her foot and turned her back, folding her arms across her breasts.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Clark Talbot, Van. I took the call, knew you didn’t want to be disturbed.”

“What did he want, Liz?”

“An advance.”

“Oh, mother. Again?”

“Wants a hundred. Until he gets on his feet with Lana, he said.”

“These guys think a literary agency is a bank. All right, make out a check for a clam. Bring it in and I’ll sign it. I’ll be damned.”

“He’s into us for three already, Van.”

“Another clam won’t hurt.”

“Okay.”

Van clicked off and looked at Lois hopefully. “Someday I’m going to write a novel,” he said.

“Really?” Her tone was still cold.

“Yes. About a literary agency. I’m going to call it To Borrow And To Borrow.”

“Do you mind if we get back to my script?” Lois asked.

“Not at all.”

“It’s good, Van, and you know it. Much too good for the...”

“I guess you don’t like the smell of that five gee.”

“...too good for the...” She paused. She let out an exasperated breath. Then she began pacing the floor. “It is good.”

“It stinks,” he told her.

“It’s just what you and Hayden said you wanted.”

“It stinks.”

“It’s the best I can do.”

“Then do better.”

“I can’t!” she fairly screamed.

“You can.”

“I can’t, can’t, can’t. I’ve had enough; I can’t take any more. Do it this way, do it that way. Change this, change that. How can a person write that way? Do you think I’m a robot? Do you think you can feed ideas into one end and get neatly typed pages from the other? Well, you can’t! You can’t!”

“Shut up, Lois!”

“I’m going home. I wish I’d never met you. I wish I were still Ree. Oh, I wish I were dead.” She sank into a chair and began sobbing. The door slid open, and Lizbeth stepped into the room. She studied Lois curiously for a moment, shrugged, and brought the check to Brant’s desk.

“You Hancock it, and I’ll send it over, Van.”

“Grooved.” He took a pen from the holder on his desk, glanced at the amount on the check, and signed it. He picked up the check then and flapped it in the air, drying the ink.

Liz nodded her head at Lois. “What’s with Redbird?”

“Art,” Van said cryptically.

“Oh.” Liz plucked the check from his fingers, studied the signature briefly, and then sighed. “Good luck.” She walked from the room swiftly, swinging her hips exaggeratedly. At the door, she turned and winked, and then was gone. Van walked over to Lois and put his arm around her shoulders.

“Look, baby...”

“Don’t get Ree, mister,” she snapped.

Van withdrew his arm hastily. “I was only...”

“I’m leaving in a minute, so save your breath. I don’t want any part of you or your damned Senso. I just want to be left alone.”

“You’re doing it wrong, Lo, I’m trying to help.”

“You can help me by dropping dead.”

“Is that nice?”

“Yes, I think it would be damned nice.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” She sucked in a deep breath, passed a hand over the side of her face, and asked, “All right, mastermind, how do we fix it?”

“That’s my girl.”

“Never mind the goo. How do we fix it?”

“Listen to this, Lo, just listen to it.” He picked up the script and began reading. “Darling, kiss me. Take me in your arms.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that?”

“It’s not loaded. It doesn’t stimulate the listener. We want something like: Darling, put your mouth on mine. Cover my lips with yours. Crush your arms around me. Press me against your body and let me...”

“I get it,” she said dully. She took another deep breath. “Have you any morph, Van?”

“Honey, I’m Mister Morph himself.” He started toward the bar.

Lois smiled, but her eyes were mirthless.

“It doesn’t fit,” Walt Alloway said. There was no emotion in his voice. He was simply stating a matter of fact.

“Then we’ll make it fit.”

Walt shook his head. They were alone in Brant’s office, and the city gleamed like a broad, jeweled tiara outside the window. The light over Van’s desk cast a golden circle around the scripts scattered on the polished top.

“It’s no go, Van.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not a whiner, Van. You know I’m not.”

“Spell it,” Van told him.

“Lois.”

“What’s the matter with her?”

“Nothing that talent wouldn’t fix.”

“She’s not that bad.”

“Van, she’s terrible. She’s got Ree sentiments as long as my arm; and on top of that, she can’t write.”

“You weren’t so damned hot when I stumbled across you, either.”

“No, but at least I had the inclination. Van, you’ve got to face it. Some got it, and some ain’t. I didn’t always think that way. I used to feel that writing was just a matter of application. Do it regularly, and do it often, and it’ll begin to pay off. That’s what I used to think.”

“Look, Walt...”

“But it isn’t that way, Van. Not at all. You see, everyone thinks he’s a natural born scribe. Anyone who’s ever written a letter to his Aunt Zephinia in Albuquerque automatically assumes he’s a scribe. He automatically joins the great brotherhood, entitled to all the privileges and amenities. The college jerk who pens a sonnet becomes part of the brotherhood. The dunce who puts on paper an embarrassing situation he lived through — he’s part of the brotherhood. Anybody and everybody. All part of the great, big, shining brotherhood of scribes.”

“Walt...”

“And those who succeed, they’re called the lucky ones. They’re called the ones who had pull, or the ones who kissed somebody, or the ones who fell in. You’ve heard it often enough, Van. Why? Because everyone can write; everyone can hold a bloody pen in his fist and scribble some hen tracks on a sheet of paper. An engineer? That takes training and a natural affinity, a mind for that sort of thing. A painter? Hell, father, no layman would call himself an artist after he painted his outhouse. But the scribe, ah the scribe, ah the underrated scribe — that doesn’t take talent. Just practice, that’s all. Like learning to pitch quoits. Well, it takes a lot of hard work — but it takes a hell of a lot of something else, too. And if you haven’t got it, you might just as well donut-leap, because that’s as far as you’ll get.”

“You finished?” Brant asked.

“No. Lois has nothing. Nothing at all. Sure, she tries, but that isn’t enough. She may be able to write that letter to Aunt Zephinia, but that’s all. We’ll never mate her words and mine, Van. Never.”

“You’re wrong, Walt. We damn well better mate them.”

“I tell you she’s no good. Zero.”

“Lower your voice. She’ll be here any second.”

Alloway shook his head again. “Why are you keeping her, Van? She’s a smooth enough broad, I suppose, with the right things in the right places, and a frontage out of a stereoshow. But... you’re not going Ree, are you?”

“Friend or no friend,” Van said seriously, “I can still punch you in the mouth.”

“All right, I’m sorry. Suppose you tell me why?”

“I’m paying her five gee; you’re getting twenty. Is that good enough?”

Walt spread his hands wide. “The root of all.”

“Damn right. For fifteen gee sliced from the bill, I’d have taken on a Mongolian idiot.”

“And what happens to slave Walt? You pay the broad five and me twenty. That’s fine from where you sit, sure. But it means I’ll have to work hard enough to earn fifty, and the broad will amble along earning about three clams worth. That sounds fair, all right; that sounds really fair, all...”

“This sounds like a hijack, Walt. Are you boosting me?”

“Oh, boost rocks!” Alloway said. He stood up and walked to the bar, wringing his hands aimlessly. There was a lengthy silence. Walt stood with his back to Van, and the city flickered outside the window, casting pools of illumination on the dimly lit floor.

“What’s the matter, Walt?” Van asked at last.

“Nothing.”

“Come on, father. This is Van.”

Alloway whirled. “All right, I don’t like it. I quit Lana Davis because she was a cashew. But she paid me more than I’d get at ten years of this. Now you slap another bedbug on me — only this one hasn’t any talent. Lana may have been psyched-up, but at least she knew which end to sit on. This broad...”

“This broad is costing me five gee.”

“Yeah, and she’s costing me a hell of a lot more than that!”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing. Not a goddamned thing. I wanted to blow off steam, and I did.”

“Walt...”

“Cut it, Van. I agreed to come along on this crazy goddamned scheme, and here I am. Don’t make me think of the moo I’m losing again, or I’ll walk out cold.”

“Okay. Fine.”

“Just remember one thing. If I’m going to have to teach that broad to write, she’s going to have to listen. One peep out of her, and...”

A tapping sounded on the outer door.

“There she is,” Van said. He touched the lock release on his desk, and they heard the outer door slide open, heard the hurried click of high heels through the reception room. The door to Brant’s office slid wide then, and Lois came into the room.

She was out of breath, and she carried a thick script under her arm. “Am I late?” She smiled briefly at Alloway.

“A little,” Van said. “Come on over.”

She walked to the desk and dumped the script under the lamp. “There it is, father; my latest sweat and blood. Now all we have to do is match it with Walt’s.”

Walt sighed painfully. “Yes,” he said. “That’s all we have to do.”

“Oh, mother, I wish I had a shot,” Lois said. She twisted her hands nervously. “Mother, could I use a shot.”

“Relax,” Walt told her.

“But suppose he doesn’t like it. Suppose...”

“He’ll like it.”

They sat side by side on the couch in Hayden Thorpe’s reception room. Across from them, the blonde receptionist was busily filing her nails.

“But suppose he doesn’t?” Lois insisted. “And where’s Van? It’s almost fifteen now. Shouldn’t he be here by now? Will it look bad if we’re late? I mean...”

“For God’s sake, relax,” Alloway said. “Thorpe is Van’s partner. If he doesn’t like it, he doesn’t like it, that’s all. We’ll start all over again.”

“Isn’t there some time limit? Don’t they have to start shooting right away? Oh, mother, do you think Thorpe would let me have a morph fix?”

“Lo, honey, if you don’t pull yourself together...”

The lift doors slid open, and Walt leaned forward. “Here’s Van now.”

Van strode across the room rapidly. He wore tight green breeches, and his muscles gleamed wetly under their coat of alcojel. His blue eyes snapped to the couch, and a smile lifted his mouth.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Does Hayden know we’re here?”

“No,” Lois said in a small voice.

“Well, we don’t want to keep him waiting.” He walked to the receptionist, who looked up lazily from her nails.

“Sir?”

“Will you tell Mr. Thorpe that Miss Sylvan, Mr. Alloway, and Mr. Brant are here to see him, please?”

“Yes, sir.” The receptionist plugged in, and then spoke into her mouthpiece. “He’ll see you now, sir.”

“Thank you.” Van turned toward the couch. “Let’s go, kids.”

Lois stood up too hurriedly, almost tripping. Walt took her arm to steady her, then released it instantly. They followed Van into Hayden’s office, and Hayden rose to greet them.

“Have you got it?” he asked. His round face was flushed, and Brant decided that he’d just popped off.

“We’ve got it, father.”

Hayden rubbed his pudgy hands together. “Good, good. I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

“Hayden,” Van said, “I don’t think you’ve met the scribes. Walt Alloway and Lois Sylvan, this is Hayden Thorpe.”

There was a murmured round of polite “how do you do’s” and then Hayden said, “Well, where is it?”

“Walt?”

Alloway came forward and removed a thickly-bound script from a briefcase. He handed it to Hayden, and Hayden grinned. “Feels good,” he said.

“It is good,” Van answered.

“Well, we’ll see. Sit down, won’t you?”

Lois looked around her in bewilderment. She spotted a couch against the wall, moved to it, and sat quickly before her knees gave way. Van sat on her left, and Walt sat down on her right. Hayden brought the script to a small table, dropped it there, and then went to his desk. He selected a cigar from a humidor, ripped off one end with his teeth, and then lighted it, great balls of smoke billowing from his mouth. He sighed, studied the lighted, glowing end of the cigar, sighed again, and then walked back to the small table. He picked up the script, sat down in a big chair under the ceilamp, made himself comfortable, and began reading.

After a while, his brow furrowed, and his mouth tightened. His eyes narrowed in concentration. Lois, Bruce, and Van sat opposite him on the couch.

The room was quiet.

Outside, the midday traffic on the various levels raised a din that tried valiantly to penetrate the muted office.

Brant had never seen a Corradonict smoke before. For all he knew, the cigar was just a prop. Hayden certainly didn’t seem aware of it. But great billows of smoke rose from his mouth, puffed out over his head, smothered him, and the chair, and the script.

The electric chronometer on the wall hummed quietly. Van began to jiggle his foot. Hayden coughed and turned a page. He read silently, turned another page, blew out another stream of smoke. The rustle of the paper made a loud, scratching sound in the silence of the room. Hayden made a noise that sounded like a cross between a burp and a grunt. He turned another page. The chronometer on the wall continued humming, throwing seconds, minutes, hours into the room. The cloud of smoke thickened and Hayden kept turning pages, one after the other, grunting occasionally, burping frequently. And finally, he leaned back, closed the script.

Van heard Lois gasp beside him, saw Walt lean forward expectantly.

“Well...” Hayden said. He studied the end of his cigar, sighed, and tossed it into the disposotray.

Lois gripped Walt’s hand tightly, and he glanced down at it for a moment, and then turned his eyes to Hayden’s face.

Hayden drew a heavy breath, and Van felt Lois tense.

“It’s terrific,” Hayden said mildly. “We can start shooting at once.”

Chapter 9

The sun was high, and the network of metallic ribbons stretching across the sky reflected shimmering pinpoints of light. The blinds in Brant’s office were tilted, allowing the sunlight to splash into the room, covering his desk top. Van basked in the sunlight, feeling comfortable and warm. When the buzzer on his desk sounded, he reached for it idly, clicked down the toggle, and drawled, “Yes?”

“Dino Pelazi to see you, Van.”

Van blinked. “Who?” he asked Lizbeth.

“Dino Pelazi, Van.”

“The Ree? The critic? The... the Ree?”

“The same.”

“Well.” He grinned. “Well. Give me ten minutes, then show him in.”

He cleared off his desk, leaving the top as shining and flawless as a mountain lake. Then he walked around the office and straightened the magazines and paperbacks. He closed the top of the bar, straightened a stereoscopic of a nude on the wall, and tilted the blinds so that the sun was strong behind him. He went to the closet, rubbed on some alcojel, combed his hair, and scrutinized himself in the door mirror. He pulled his breeches higher on his waist, saw that his boots carried a high polish, sucked in his stomach, and then walked back to his desk. He was tempted to face the windows, presenting his back to the entrance door and his guest, the way Pelazi had done that day at the courthouse. He reasoned that this would be childish, tilted his head instead so that the sunlight hit his profile.

The door slid open in a few moments, and he heard Liz announce, “Mr. Pelazi, sir.”

There was the shuffle of feet into the room, and then he heard the swish of Liz’s skirts, and the whisper of the door as it slid shut behind her. He did not look up. He was remembering that day at the courthouse, and he was savoring this brief period of rudeness. He kept looking through the blinds for a few moments, and then he turned casually.

Pelazi had stopped in the center of the room.

He was not at all what Van had pictured. Having seen only his back and his hair previous to this, Van had expected a somewhat older man. This man was young, and tallish, with a carefully trimmed black beard. His hair was white, just as Van remembered it, and Van imagined he resented the natural processes which had unwittingly given him the two-tone Vike effect. He wore a severely tailored black suit that was a shade lighter than his ebony beard. His collar was high and tight, his tie thin. His shoes were black and highly polished. He had a straight, strong nose that sliced down the middle of his face like a cleaver. His lips were drawn together in a tight line beneath that nose, carefully concealing his teeth. His eyes could tell stories, but they were short of material at the moment.

“Mr. Pelazi,” Van said, mockingly cordial. “I’m honored.”

Pelazi took a quick step forward, then stopped with his heels together, his Homburg clenched in both hands, his cane looped over his right arm. “I’ll make my visit brief and to the point, Mr. Branoski,” he said. His voice was deep and resonant, the way it had been the first time they met. Van found himself staring into the depths of the Ree’s eyes.

“Mr. Brant,” he corrected.

Pelazi smiled mirthlessly. “If you prefer.”

“I prefer.”

“Very well. I have compiled a list of alleged literary agents who are today soliciting the majority of smut on the market. You, unfortunately, are one of the chief purveyors. I’ve been systematically eliminating these men, starting at the top and working my way to the bottom.”

“Eliminating? Are you referring to the Belly Statute? Can’t we let that wait until the court...”

“I am not referring to 431. My elimination has been solely on a visit basis. I’ve come to ask something of you, Mr. Branos... Mr. Brant.”

“And what’s that?”

“May I sit down?”

“Please do.”

“Thank you.” Pelazi moved to the chair opposite Van’s desk. He sat down, carefully raising his trousers to protect their crease. He put his Homburg on one arm of the chair, leaned forward, and rested both hands on the head of his cane. His fingers were thin and strong, Van noticed.

“Now then. You’re a businessman, so I shan’t mince words. I’ve come to ask that you discontinue the submission of manuscripts to: a, the magazines, b, the paperbacks, c, the stereoscopic, the three dimensional, and the sensory mediums.”

“You missed one,” Brant said drily.

“Did I indeed?”

“Yes. We’re still submitting material to the live shows.”

Pelazi coughed politely. “We’ll ignore the legitimate theatre in our discussion. I rather imagine you’re not selling them a great deal of material.”

“Especially since the ruckus over the benefit started.” Van smiled. “In other words, Mr. Pelazi, you’d like me to go out of business.”

Pelazi smiled in return. “I did not suggest that.”

“But your statement was heavily loaded with that implication, I would say. Wouldn’t you?”

“I’ll leave the interpretation to your own fertile mind. Do you agree to my proposal?”

The two men made a somewhat ludicrous picture. They sat there with their mouths curled into smiles, but Van’s hands were clenched on the arms of his chair, and Pelazi’s fingers worked nervously on the head of his cane. They stared at each other, grinning, and then the

smile disappeared from Van’s face. He leaned forward abruptly and said, “Don’t be popped, father.”

“Sir?”

“Your proposal is absurd.”

“Oh?”

“You’re asking me to slit my own throat.”

“Precisely.”

“And you expect me to agree to it?”

The smile was gone from Pelazi’s face now. “Suicide is sometimes a more pleasant prospect than execution.”

“Don’t tickle me, Pelazi. The Vikes are firmly rooted; it’ll take more than a threat from you to kick us out.”

“I know that. We now possess the means to destroy you and your ilk, Mr. Brant. Believe me, we are fully prepared; mine is not an empty threat.”

“No, huh? How do you propose to back it up? With bad reviews?” He snorted contemptuously. “Or are you counting on your big trial? Is that your ace in the hole? Hell, Pelazi, I’m not even sure you’ll win, and even if you did...”

“I am not counting on the trial,” Pelazi said softly.

“Whatever you’re counting on, you’re pouring into a seive. Grow up, father, the people are wise.”

“Are they?”

“They are. They are that. Finally, after all these years, they’re wise. Oh so wise, father. They know just what they want, and we’re giving it to them.”

“But is it what they want?”

“I’ve no time for philosophy; and I don’t want to chop psych with you, either. You know what they want as well as I do.”

Pelazi pursed his lips and said nothing. His hands were firm on the head of his cane. Van took his silence for assent.

“It used to be the other way around, Pelazi. The little man was the slob, wallowing in filth, breeding kids he didn’t want, dreaming of adventure he never had and never would have. The paperbacks took a hold then, and the little man began to wake up. He recognized convention for what it really was: a petty disguise of polite society, a subterfuge designed to keep the little man’s feet firmly on the ground, to keep his head from out of the clouds.”

“I’m really not terribly interested in...”

“And at the same time, the body magicians were at work. Wear a Juno bra and you won’t be flat-chested. Use Vitagro on your hair, and you’ll be dazzling. Don’t smell. Use Sosoap. While the paperbacks extolled the merits of vicarious adventure, the advertising industry emphasized clothes, cosmetics, luxuries the little man could never afford, trips to Bermuda, beauty aids, automobiles, dreams. And sex reared its lovely breast. The paperbacks featured busty broads on their covers in full color, a vicarious thrill for a quarter, the thin part of a dollar. Television joined the parade, for free this time, and if you couldn’t see a chick’s navel on Channel thirty, you switched to twenty-nine. The movies clung to their stupid censorship rulings until they realized they were losing out in the big race. They relaxed then, and the results were amazing. Improved three dimensional processes took hold, giving more reality to the vicarious pleasure. And the people liked it. The people loved it. The people...”

“All of which...”

“All of which illustrates a point. Joe Sucker began to understand an important truth. It had been there all along, starting maybe with the now defunct comic books, working its way up through the pulp magazines, through the now extinct hardcover novels, into the pabacks, into television, the movies, the stereos, and right down the line. Now he knew. The make-believe was better than the reality!

“The girl’s behind wiggling on the motion picture screen was a hundred times better and a thousand times more effective than his own wife’s in the shabby, dubious comfort of his own home. The colorful characters of the dream world — the people with names like Drew and Allison and Mark and Cynthia — were having a hell of a lot more fun than the little man was. In real life, a fist fight was a messy thing of blood and gore; in the dream world, it was an honorable culmination to a challenge. In real life, the pure maiden was extolled as the acme of perfection. In the dream world, if a chick didn’t hop into bed after five minutes of casual conversation, she was a Mongolian idiot. ‘Hey!’ Joe Sucker yelled, ‘where have I been all my life?’ He woke up, finally, and the waking was a tremendously powerful thing.”

“The awakening was the doom of society,” Pelazi said.

“No, Mr. Pelazi. It put the little man right where he’d always wanted to be. He changed his name from Joe Sucker to Joel Standish. He forgot about the disappointing realities all around him and concentrated on the pure vicarious aspect of living. He began to enjoy himself for the first time because now his entire world was a make-believe one. He conveniently disposed of the reality, which no longer served any concrete purpose in his life. He was a sucker reborn, and he clasped hands with millions of other suckers, and began having one hell of a good time. Drugs, which had already taken a strong illegal foothold, became as common as cigarettes. Eventually, as you know, they became legal, which was a damned smart move. Marriage took a back seat, treated as the shoddy thing it was, the invention of some fools who wanted to carefully conceal what is basically a somewhat disgusting animal impulse. Archaicism was replaced by new thoughts, new language, new dreams. Society was revitalized. It still is...”

“Decadent! It is decadent!” Pelazi shouted.

“Only for a Realist. For the Vike, there is pure escape. It does things better for him, with no strain and no pain. Three cheers for it, I say.”

Pelazi’s face seemed ready to erupt. It turned a deep red, and then modulated the chromatic scale until it reached its normal shade again. “Your answer,” he mumbled. “Your... your answer to my proposal?”

“You just had it, Pelazi. I say stuff your proposal. Stuff it up your nose like a peanut!”

“You will continue with your submissions? In spite of...”

“I damn well will.”

Pelazi rose, stiffly. “Thanks for the history lesson, Mr. Branoski. I appreciated it.” He turned brusquely and started for the door, stopping halfway across the carpet. “You’ll remember that you were warned? You will remember that?”

“Sure, I’ll remember.”

“We’ll do everything in our power to crush you now, Mr. Branoski. You and the others. We’ve started already, and we won’t stop until we’ve won. The Vicarion Movement is finished, believe me.”

Van didn’t answer. Pelazi seemed ready to say something else. He opened his mouth, and then shook his head when he saw the grin on Van’s face.

Quickly, he turned on his heel and walked out.

Brant should be here, Dino Pelazi thought. Brant should see the Ree in his natural habitat. Brant should be here.

He had thought of the Vike ever since leaving his office. He could not get Brant out of his mind. Even now, surrounded by Rees, in the secure comfort of a Ree home, listening to Ree conversation, he could not get Brant out of his mind.

Perhaps I’m going Vike, Pelazi thought. Wouldn’t Schultz love that? Wouldn’t Schultz exult in saying, ‘I suspected Dino of tendencies all along.’?

A good Realist, Schultz. If there is such a thing as a good Realist. Now come, come, Dino, there are good Realists. You are a good Realist, aren’t you? Am I? And Schultz?

Why, surely Schultz is a good Realist. Why, he’d been a Realist from away back in the old days. It was Schultz who’d organized picket lines whenever a doubtfully moral movie showed at one of the alleged art theatres. It was not important that Schultz had been two-timing his wife at the same time. It was not important that Schultz was indulging with that little blonde — what was her name — during the period in which he carried signs stating, “This motion picture advocates adultery!” That was not important. What is important? Pelazi wondered.

Surely, the Vikes are wrong. They can’t be right, no they cannot, because they are so obviously wrong. But are we right? And just what the hell, in essence, is the Realist philosophy — or have we allowed it to become so damned clouded over the years that we honestly cannot say any more?

Is it, Do as I say, but not as I do?

No, that’s making a mockery of the whole thing, and the Realist cause is certainly not a mockery. Or is it?

Where did it begin? You’re a Realist, Dino, and Brant was able to tell you just where the Vikes began. Where did the Realist begin? In Salem days, with the witchcraft trials? (Heavens, that far back?) In the beginnings of state laws governing the sexual practices of state citizens? Or the Ku Klux Klan — the burning of a cross — the whipping of an adulteress? In the committees to banish books? And, oh, did the paperbacks take out full page ads in counterattack! In the committees advocating censorship of motion pictures? And, oh, did some producers fight these committees right up to the Supreme Court! Where then?

For we have tried to censor movies and books, oh yes, we have. And did we hope to accomplish anything by such censorship? Did we really feel that a blackballed book or a picketed movie would really discourage, let us say, adultery? And conversely, did we feel a suggestive novel would truly be suggestive to someone whose moral code, whose principles of behavior had already been established? Is that what we believed?

Did we believe that smoking was a vile thing, did we reluctantly, oh so reluctantly, finally allow women to appear on cigarette advertisements — but did we still cling in the meantime to the outdated notion of a female smoker on the streets being something akin to a streetwalker? Did we condemn the drinking habit, even the social drinking habit, did we — the Realists — do that? And while we ranted and raved about these minor, petty, social ills, what did we do about some of the real menaces? Did we really believe the books and movies were causing the widespread use of narcotics? Could we really have believed that? Did we hope to convince ourselves that the delinquency bred and nurtured in our city schools was a result of the printed word? This was a real disease, but we chose to sue the transit companies, instead, because they carried placards discussing the avoidance and conquest of syphillis.

I think we lost sight of the forest, Pelazi thought. I honestly believe we were incapable of separating the crap from the cream. I honestly believe we donned a Puritan hat, and we refused to take off that hat; we stuffed everything into that hat, good and bad alike, mistaking artistry for smut, mistaking honest reporting for dishonest distortion.

We wore our clothing to our throats, pretending our women did not own breasts, casually ignoring the brassiere ads which denied the nonexistence of breasts, and which offered remedies and hidden treasures for those unendowed.

We denied stimulation, and at the same time we propagated like rabbits. We tried to tell everyone that two people mating in a piece of literature was a disgusting thing. We didn’t stop to explain away the fact that two people (who did or did not read the literature in question, it didn’t matter) would undoubtedly hop into bed that night and mate anyway, without the convenient literary double space and the clichéd “Afterwards.”

We denied what was. We denied what was, and the Vikes went us one better. We denied what was by refusing to permit representation of it, while secretly admitting it existed. The Vikes denied what was by allowing the representation to replace the reality. They...

“Because smut is smut,” a young man was saying, “and there are no two ways about it. I read a book the other night, one on the Spit List. Well, I’m telling you...”

“Where’d you get a Spit List book?” the hostess asked. She was an attractive woman, and her breasts were molded firmly within the confines of her rigid brassiere and her throat-hugging dress.

“I picked it up,” the young man said.

“And did it stimulate you?” the hostess asked archly.

“Stimulate? That’s putting it mildly. I threw Marge into bed, and wouldn’t let her get up for a week.”

“Oh, David,” Marge protested.

“And I think I’d have had enough left over for you, Betty,” the young man said to his hostess.

“I’ll try you sometime,” Betty answered archly.

The gathering laughed. Pelazi did not laugh with them. The marriage jokes, he was thinking. When, exactly, in a marriage, does the sex joke begin? Attend any gathering of Rees who’ve been married for — oh, let’s say three years at the most — and the marriage jokes will crop up as a matter of course.

Why was it that the crux of the Ree marriage had become a success or lack of success in bed? And could the Ree really be serious about something if he constantly joked about it?

Always the jokes, but always with the half-seriousness behind them, a generation whispering behind its hand in an attempt to cover up its disappointment. A Ree marriage, at best, was disillusionment. A termination of the courtship, a dutiful resignation to the nuptial couch, a boredom born of repetition.

The alternative was bachelorhood, the endless round of conquests, the game being played in monotonous succession. Until the final surrender, and then what was there? Hadn’t the preparation been more interesting than the act itself? By God, if only the Ree was in reality what the Vike pictured him to be.

No, the Ree was a strange breed, a conventional contradiction of statements, denying on one hand, plying on the other. Like a man in the arms of a harlot, protesting to his wife he is only playing poker with the boys.

Why couldn’t I have told this to Brant, Pelazi wondered. Instead, I behaved like a tongue-tied fool, a Freshman fumbling with a three minute speech in a college course.

Pelazi cursed his awkwardness, cursed the Vikes because they always made him feel inefficient and bumbling in their sleek, streamlined presence.

This Brant had been a typical Vike, proud, assured — so certain he was doing the right thing. Pelazi had spent hours checking into his background, had gone to the interview fully prepared with the facts. The case history had read like that of a million Vikes in the city, except — of course — that Brant was a success. Most Vikes lived from day to day, substituting the vague shadows of a drug-infested world for the real experience of living. The real experience. We know the bed, and even that we do not know too well. It is the only luxury we permit ourselves, that and our sterile legitimate stage. Luxury, hell! The bed is our opiate! But discounting Brant’s success, the picture was the same.

VAN BRANT, born John Albert Branoski, twenty-seven years old.

FATHER: tailor. Deceased.

MOTHER: housewife. Deceased.

BROTHERS: Arthur Branoski, fourteen years senior. Heroin addict before legalization of drugs. Died of tetanus, allegedly contracted from infected syringe, or bad shipment of drug.

HISTORY? Parents divorced when Brant was sixteen. At seventeen, Vike Movement attracted him. Left home shortly after father went off with another woman. (Was the old man a Ree? Pelazi wondered.) Mother died when Brant was eighteen; he had contributed to her support until then.

Began writing under the name Van Brant, finally changed it officially at age twenty. Free-lanced for two years longer, working mostly for the paperbacks, doing occasional stereoscopic stints. Started literary agency at age twenty-two. Drug-addict, of course. Morphine.

And Pelazi had known all this, had come to the man’s office prepared to show him the wisdom of quick capitulation. He had not known exactly how he would bring the surrender about. He could certainly not reveal his hand. The trial business, oh yes, but nothing more. But he’d been certain of success, certain he could sway the man, enlist his cooperation.

Instead, the man had stifled him completely. A man with nothing more than a grammar school education, Brant’s speech had been fluid and unhesitant. He knew the history of the Vike Movement the way he knew the back of his checkbook. He reeled it off, and there was no doubt that he believed every word he spouted.

And Pelazi had sat there... He could have said... He could have said...

The things one “could have said.” The countless self-kickings afterwards. Afterwards, when it’s too late. The brilliant repartee, the biting remark, the caustic comment, the telling point in a vacillating argument.

But there had been no argument. There had been only Brant the professor, and Pelazi the student. And why had he childishly insisted on calling the other man Branoski? It was too late now. The moment was gone, and with it the opportunity. Oh God, he thought. Couldn’t I have done the right thing? Wouldn’t it have been just as easy to have done the right thing? Or is it possible to discuss sanity with a madman? Can one discuss logic with someone who illogical? Could I have said, Branoski, Brant, this is all wrong. This is desperately wrong. Can’t you see, my friend? Can’t you see that this is all sham, that the way to fight life is not to escape it but to face it? Can’t you see that all this is temporary, that the ultimate disillusionment will be the shattering of your carefully constructed dream? And when that happens, then what? Who will pick up the shattered, scattered pieces of the dream?

Will it be your Vikes, my friend? No, because they are sick. Yes, Brant, they are terribly sick, and more sick because they do not even recognize the symptoms of their ailment. Who then? Will it be the Realists? Will it be they who gather up the broken shards? And here, here I would have clasped hands with the man, and our eyes would have spoken of the future — if only I had done it correctly.

No, Brant. Not the Realists. Because we, too, you see, are sick.

Chapter 10

“It’s so beautiful, Rog. All this color! Red, and gold, and brown, and orange. I’d almost forgotten what it could be like.”

“The dirge of the city dweller, Deb. Nature’s lost cousins.”

“What made you think of it? Have you been here before?”

“This spot? No, never. I just thought you’d appreciate a ride in the country. You can get sick of concrete and steel... and people.”

“Especially people. It’s wonderful, Rog. Not a soul for miles. Just trees and shrubs and bushes and rocks... and they don’t give a good goddamn.”

“This used to be a common thing, you know. I mean, long ago. People would pack up their families, and away we go. A few sandwiches, a jug of orangeade, the salt, the mustard. All set for a picnic.”

“That sounds Ree.”

“It is, I guess. Maybe they still do it.”

“Is this a picnic?”

“Except for the lack of food, yes.”

“Then I like picnics.”

“Good.”

“Is that wrong? Liking something that I know is Ree?”

“I can’t see any harm in it.”

“Then I like it; I like it very much. And I like you for thinking of it.”

“You seemed troubled, Deb. I thought...”

“What kind of a tree is this?”

“I don’t know. Maple, maybe. Yes, I think it’s maple.”

“It looks majestic. Aren’t oaks supposed to be majestic.”

“If you like.”

“Let’s call it an oak then. Maple sounds like a small street in a small town. Trees should either be majestic or pathetic, but they should never remind you of small towns.”

“Well, small towns can be pathetic, you know.”

“But never majestic. This is an oak.”

“All right, it’s an oak.”

“Am I crazy, Rog?”

“No.”

“Do normal people call maples oaks?”

“Normal people fool themselves in a lot of ways.”

“And am I fooling myself when I pretend this maple is an oak?”

“Yes, but it’s a mild deception. You see, you know it’s really a maple. If you were convinced it was an oak, something would be wrong.”

“Were you born in the country, Rog?”

“No, I’ve lived in the city all my life.”

“How do you know so much about trees?”

“Me? I don’t know a birch from an elm.”

“I don’t, either. Are you sure we’re not both crazy?”

“I’m sure.”

“Am I neurotic?”

“We all are.”

“But am I especially neurotic?”

“Do you think you are?”

“No. Well, maybe. I don’t know.”

“Tell me.”

“Oh, you’re turning into the professional man again. Here I was beginning to respect you as a man of the soil, and bingo! You’re a psych.”

“A psych without his couch. Good Lord, I’m lost.”

“Do you really want to psych me?”

“Hell, no; I want to enjoy Autumn.”

“There’s a lot to enjoy, isn’t there? I never knew it could be so beautiful. It’s so... real, Rog. Oh, damnit, there I go Ree again.”

“Is that what’s bothering you?”

“I thought you didn’t want to psych me.”

“I don’t.”

“Then stop asking me what’s bothering me. Nothing’s bothering me. I’m a nature-lover, protector of the royal oak. Besides, you haven’t got your couch. You said so yourself.”

“We could use that patch of pine needles for a couch. It’s shady there. We could pretend I’ve drawn the blinds.”

“Pretense again.”

“Most of living is, Deb; come to the couch.”

“Oh, all right.”

“Here, this way.”

“I’m afraid I’m not dressed for a jaunt in the country. My legs are getting scratched.”

“So long as...”

“So long as what? Why’d you stop?”

“No reason.”

“You were thinking, so long as I didn’t scratch my breasts, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you say so?”

“I... say, who’s psyching who?”

“Whom.”

“Well, you should have worn some sort of covering. Be a shame if...”

“See. You stopped again. I think you have a breast fetish.”

“In this day and age, my dear Deborah, that is a most sound diagnosis. Sit down and shut up.”

“All right. Oh, they’re soft.”

“Pine needles always are.”

“They shouldn’t call them needles then. Needles make me think of something sharp.”

“How do you feel, Deb?”

“Me? Why, fine.”

“You haven’t been looking well.”

“Are you starting to psych me? I mean, should I lie back or something?”

“Let’s forget I’m a psych; let’s talk as friends.”

“All right.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing, Deb?”

“Nothing important.”

“What?”

“I told you, it’s not important. I don’t like this game, Rog. Let’s walk some more.”

“Sit down, Deb.”

“You’re entirely too dominant, Mr. Moore. Doctor Moore. What was your real name, Rog?”

“What difference does it make?”

“I want to know. It’s like calling a maple an oak.”

“A stupid name.”

“What?”

“Americo.”

“Oh, not really.”

“Yes, really; my parents were naturalized citizens — born in Palermo, I think. They were pretty hepped up on the idea of America. They named me Americo. Americo Mancusi.”

“How’d you get Rog Moore from that?”

“I didn’t. I just chucked the whole works.”

“Americo. That sounds more majestic than Rog.”

“Majestic? God, it’s titanic; who could ever live up to a name like that?”

“Shall I call you Americo?”

“I prefer Rog.”

“My real name was Betsy. That’s sickening, isn’t it?”

“It’s a little unsophisticated, yes.”

“Dean is really my last name, though. I just changed the first part. Deborah Dean. It’s really alliterative, isn’t it?”

“Quite symphonic. What’s troubling you, Deb?”

“Are we back to that again?”

“I’m afraid we are.”

“You’re a hard man to dissuade.”

“I’m a psych.”

“You’ve already told me I’m not crazy. That’s what psychs are for.”

“What’s troubling you, Deb?”

“Rog, I... I... well...”

“That difficult, huh? Let’s see now. Mild anxiety coupled with extreme reticence. Stammering, stuttering, and stunned silence.”

“Rog, I...”

“Timidity, tonal tonsillectomy, and telltale tittering. I’d say paranoia, offhand.”

“You’re joking, but I’ve thought of that, too.”

“All right, Deb. Let’s have it.”

“The... the Inseminar.”

“What about it?”

“I’ve... I’ve been twice. Each time, I only got as far as the door. I... I couldn’t bring myself to go inside, Rog.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. That’s just it; I simply don’t know. I just froze on the front doorstep. I was the absolute picture of the virgin on her wedding night. That’s silly, I know. I mean, it’s just a test tube, after all.”

“Why were you frightened? Or were you frightened?”

“Yes, I was. Terribly so. And not only that, Rog. Something else. Something I don’t think I can explain easily.”

“Try.”

“I... I kept thinking of the Ree stories, Rog. About... about babies conceived this way being idiots and... and not normal. You know.”

“You mean babies conceived at the Inseminar?”

“Yes. You know the Ree jokes. Spare the rod and spoil the child. That sort of thing. I kept thinking of it, and I wondered if I were doing the right thing.”

“It’s only right if you believe in it, Deb.”

“Then I suppose I don’t believe in it. Like the maple tree, I suppose. I can tell myself it’s oak, but I know it’s maple.”

“Exactly.”

“But there was something else, Rog. A... a feeling of guilt. Yes, that was it; a terrible feeling of guilt... as if I had no right to do what I was doing. Is that being silly, too?”

“No, not at all.”

“Rog...”

“Yes?”

“Isn’t something wrong? I mean...”

“Yes?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“You mean with us. With people? With Rees and Vikes.”

“Yes, everything, Rog. Oh, my God, I’m so confused. I don’t know what I want, and I don’t know what I should want. I know that’s awful. I’m twenty-three years old, and I feel like a thirteen-year-old with her first menst.”

“There’s nothing strange about that, Deb.”

“Isn’t there? Rog, I can’t explain the things that are going through my mind lately; and I feel as if I don’t know my own body, either. You remember, long long ago, when they burned women at the stake for being possessed of the devil? I feel as if I’ve been possessed, Rog. I feel as if some alien has entered my mind and body and taken complete control. I’m just a stranger — an outsider looking in— And I don’t understand what I see. I don’t understand it at all. Maybe I should be burned at the stake.”

“I hardly think so. I’d say your state of mind was normal... for our times.”

“But is it right to wonder so much about everything? I question everything I do now, Rog. The Inseminar was just one example. Why, when I sit and — forgive me — eat alone, I wonder why I’m doing it. Every time I pop off, even while the drug is raging inside me, I wonder why I’m putting needles into my thigh. Rog, that can’t be right; it can’t be healthy to have so many doubts about yourself. Is it? Please tell me, Rog. Please.”

“Don’t make me a god, Deb. I’m just an ordinary psych who hasn’t had much opportunity to practice lately.”

“How do you mean?”

“A psych is in business only when people seek him for help. When a man doesn’t know he’s troubled, he doesn’t look for aid.”

“Then there is something wrong? With everyone, I mean?”

“I couldn’t say, Deb.”

“Will we ever know?”

“Oh, yes; I’m quite certain we will. Perhaps sooner than we think.”

“Is everyone in such doubt? Do the Rees wonder about themselves, too?”

“There was; a man, Deb, a poet... a long time ago...”

“Yes?”

“He wrote a very lovely poem. It’s on the Ree Spit List, I believe, and most Vikes will have no part of it. There are some lines in the poem... well, no matter.”

“Say them, Rog.”

“I don’t know if I can remember...”

“Say them.”

“I think it went something like this:

“And indeed there will be time

To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—

(They will say: ‘How his hair is growing thin!’)

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—

(They will say: ‘But how his arms and legs are thin!’) Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.”

“Who wrote that, Rog?”

“One of the old poets. T. S. Eliot.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Yes.”

“Then they did doubt, even then.”

“Even then, Deb.”

“In a minute there is time...”

“That’s what he wrote, Deb.”

“There is something wrong, isn’t there, Rog?”

“Yes, Deb; there’s a great deal wrong.”

“Then why did you lie to me? Why did you say you didn’t know?”

“I don’t know, really. I know that the Vikes are wrong because life for them is a shoddy pretense, an ersatz fabrication. And I know that the Rees are wrong because they’ve bound themselves with chains that refuse to recognize progress.”

“And the others?”

“The others? You and me, Deb — the others like us — we’re wrong, too. We’re wrong because we’re sitting back and watching this world of ours go to hell with itself. And we’re doing nothing about it. We’re perhaps more wrong than all the rest.”

“But if you know all this...”

“I don’t know the answer, Deb. That’s the trouble; I don’t know the answer.”

“I see.”

“It’s not an easy one to find, either.”

“Rog...”

“Yes?”

“Will you think me brazen? Will you think I’ve gone Ree?”

“What is it, Deb?”

“I want you to kiss me, Rog; I want very much to be kissed.”

“I...”

“Please say no if you don’t want to, Rog. Please don’t feel you have to.”

“Deborah...”

“Rog... do we... do we...”

“Do we dare disturb the universe?”

Chapter 11

“Catch this,” Van Brant said to Liz.

“Good God,” Liz said, “what is it? A diag for blowing up the White House?”

“Did you ever see anything like it? That’s the shooting script for the Senso. Brother, it’s fab!”

“Fab, father? It’s fant!”

“It looks good, Liz, it really looks fine. It’s worth all the time I’m giving it.”

“Well, maybe,” Liz said doubtfully.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. It’s just that... well, between the Senso and that damned trial coming up... well, you’ve been neglecting the agency a lot.”

“The hell with the agency.” He paused. “No, I don’t mean that. What’s new, Liz?”

“Carson Fields called this morning.”

“Again?”

“Again. That’s what I mean. This Belly thing is becoming smelly. If it’s not him calling, it’s one of your competitors, wanting to know what progress is being made, wanting to know whether or not you think Pelazi will win. We clock at least ten calls from agents every day. And not only literary agents, Van. We got a call from the biggest advertising outfit in the city yesterday. They wanted to know...”

“What did Fields want?”

“He wanted to go over the list of scripts again. He wanted to make sure this was all the material your scribes contributed to the benefit. He wants to see you some time today, if you can make it.”

Van sighed heavily. “What else is new?”

“Lots.”

“Like?”

“Like three scripts back from Preen Publishers this morning.”

“What was wrong?”

“Scribbled reject. Just said they weren’t right, that’s all.”

“That’s funny. Who were the scribes?”

“Mercer, Peer, Fitch.”

“Why, all three have sold to Preen!”

“I know.”

“Well then what the hell’s wrong?”

Liz shrugged.

“You don’t seem very damned interested, Liz.”

“I’m sorry, Van. It’s just... well... lots of bad news this morning.”

“Read it.”

“A notice from Agon Senso. New ownership.”

“That’s great, real great,” Van said sourly. “What else?”

“Pile of stuff back from Stereo One. Not their type, they said.”

“Not their type?” Van stood up and walked around the desk, looking at the pile of scripts there. “Why this is the same kind of stuff we’ve been sending them all along. What the hell’s wrong with them?”

“Just a bad day, I guess. You want me to remarket this stuff, Van?”

“Yes. But first call Andrews at Stereo One. Ask him what the hell he means by not their type. Tell him...”

“He’s not there any more, Van.”

“Since when?”

“Yesterday. A new fellow’s taken over; I forget his name.”

“Did they give you his name?”

“Yes.”

“How are we supposed to contact him if you forget his name? Call them up and get it.” He stroked his chin and then slapped his fist into his open palm. “That explains it, of course. A new editor, a new batch of pet agents and scribes. Well, hell, there are other markets.”

“Hundreds,” Liz agreed. “What brews tonight, Van?”

“Why?”

“Got a party, thought you might like to take my arm.”

“Not tonight, hon.”

“Business?”

“Business,” he said.

Liz shrugged wearily. “It’ll probably be a dull glom anyway.”

She took a great deal of care in dressing that night, more care than she remembered taking in a long time. And still, the old feeling was gone. Liz tried desperately to recover it.

She tinted her face, shoulders, and breasts a startling white. She’d done her hair black that afternoon, and the contrast was a highly effective one. Her brows angled onto her forehead like raven wings, and she wore green contacts that gleamed like emeralds against the bright white of her skin. She rummaged in her lipstick kit, came up with one titled Blast Furnace, applied a bright crimson slash to her mouth. She pressed her lips together, nodded appreciatively at the effect.

She lowered the lipstick to her breasts and thought, God help anyone who gets too close to me tonight. And immediately afterwards, she thought, Fat chance of that. She applied the lipstick to her nipples, carefully daubing the pointed tips, the brownish-purple circles against the swell of her bosom.

She threw on her most daring skirt, slashed high over her crotch. She looked at herself in the mirror, frowning when she realized how far she’d gone. She changed her see-thru underwear quickly, putting on a pair of black fringed translucents. That was a little better.

She strapped her shoes on, selecting the pair with the highest heels, gave her hair three strokes with the brush, and then looked into the mirror once more. You’ll do, she thought.

She packed four vials of opaine in her purse, in case the party was a stiff, and then left the apartment. In the street, she sniffed the brisk autumn air, wondering if she should go back for a cape. The breeze was bracing, and she felt her skin tingle, felt her lungs expand. There was the smell of woodsmoke in the air, coming from someone’s back yard, and the aroma stirred something deep within her, brought back vague memories of a time long ago when she’d played with jacks and skipping ropes and tricycles.

“I’ve come a long way from Saint Louis,” she said aloud, and then immediately wondered when and how the expression had entered the language. She’d never been anywhere near St. Louis. In her mind, she placed it as being close to New Orleans, but she wasn’t even sure of that. And yet, she’d come a long way from St. Louis.

Adolescent, the Rees called it. They said the Vike language was a conglomeration of slang, Ancient Hip (whatever the hell that was), and extreme modernity. They called it a bastard adolescent which would wither before it reached maturity. A lot the Rees knew!

She began walking briskly. It was too nice a night to bother with the tubes, and besides she could use the exercise. The party wasn’t too far off. The walk would do her good.

She heard her heels clicking along the sidewalk and considered the lonely sound of the click. Dusk bunched into the sky, spreading on the horizon. The sky modulated to a deeper shade, not purple and not black, and then gave way suddenly to night. A sharp wind came up, blowing her skirt about her legs, raising goose pimples on her flesh. I should have worn a cape, she thought.

She began walking more swiftly. The cold was uncomfortable. She had never liked Autumn; it was a fickle season, not to be trusted. Nor had she ever enjoyed the night. Someone had once said the night was a woman’s time, designed for her, conceived to make her more alluring, more desirable. Strictly Ree talk, of course, and yet Liz wondered about its truth. In the sunshine, a spade was a spade. At night, with the soft cloak of darkness over everything...

No, she could not go along with the idea. The night was a time to fear. Darkness. Shadows. Stealthy shapes.

I wonder how Van would look in a bearskin, she thought. Well, there it is again. Well, he’s come up again. It’s not that he’s handsome, she thought; it’s not that at all. God knows, there have been better-looking men. His hair is not made for a crewcut, and it doesn’t stand up right. It flops in spots, and it’s uneven in other spots, and he really should change his barber. His nose is too flat for his face, and his cheekbones are too high. He is built nicely, that’s true. But even so, there are better muscles, if a girl wants muscles. The trouble is, a girl shouldn’t want muscles. A girl shouldn’t want anything. Handsome or otherwise.

Well, he isn’t handsome. Nor is he particularly pleasant. Sometimes, yes; but he’s a bear most of the time, and would probably be a hell of a man to live with. If anyone would live with him.

You’d live with him. Yes. Yes, I suppose I would. I suppose if he said Liz, Liz, I want to share it with you, all of it, what do you say, I suppose I would say yes, Van. I suppose I could easily forget the fact that he’s not very handsome...

He’s not ugly. No, he’s not ugly, of course not. You can... you can...

Love.

You can...

LOVE.

You can like a man who’s ugly, there have been plenty of girls who’ve liked men who were ugly, I’m sure there have been plenty. But Van Brant is not ugly, not handsome either, but certainly not ugly. A girl needn’t be ashamed of him.

A girl would be proud of him. Yes, I would be proud of him, I suppose. I like the way he thinks. What I know of his thinking, anyway. He seems... quick. In tune. I like that. I like a person who does things fast. I don’t like people who fumble. I like people to be sure and swift. Van is that way. I’m that way myself. It would be nice if...

He doesn’t know you exist. Of course not, the secretary, that’s me. The cute blonde in the outer office. The marketeer. The diplomatic courier for every half-arsed editor in town. The sunshine girl with the happy-hello breasts to nod at editorial faces. Good old Liz. Attagirl, Liz, good girl, Liz.

Rocks. To the beaming-faced editors and the addle-brained publishers. And to Van Brant and his quick mind and his dead heart. To all of them. All but six. And where the hell did that originate? And who gives a damn?

You do! I do. I do, all right. I give a big damn. A might big damn. I give a Grand Coulee. And that’s wrong. It’s as wrong as Ree, and Ree is real wrong, strong wrong, all along wrong.

The darkness. And this is wrong, too. It’s wrong because I’m on my way to a party, and a party is happy-time, with happy faces and happy breasts and smiling navels. Smiling navels? Smiling navels and tinted bellies, and a few good fixes and...

The night... then off to bed and the dreams. Of Van? Too often lately. The wrong kind of dreams. Ree dreams.

The night.

She was suddenly aware of the darkness around her. The streets were deserted, and the blackness seemed suddenly like an immense thing without beginning and without end. Where was she? She looked up at the light posts, noting they were out, noting that the entire street had no power. She’d have to report that; she’d do it as soon as she got to the party.

She began walking swiftly, listening to the lonesome, lonely click of her heels again. She was almost not aware of the other clicking behind her.

She walked a little further, and then the two sounds separated themselves in her mind. Her own heels with their steady rat-tat. And the other.

A hurried clicking. Hesitant. Stopping. Starting again. A heavy clicking. The click of leather-heeled shoes. Or boots.

She quickened her pace. In her own mind, she could no longer hear the clicking of her own heels. She heard only the other sound behind her, and the ancient fears crowded in upon her, and she longed for a fire to ward off the darkness, to push back the night. She wondered how far it was to the party, and then she heard the heels behind her speed up, and fear rushed into her throat.

She wanted to turn to look over her shoulder, but she was afraid that would show her fear, exhibit it, tell her follower she was petrified. She kept walking faster, deeper into the blackness. The heels behind her were no longer uncertain. They clicked strongly on the empty pavement, and they echoed down the long street. They were closer, too, she was certain of that. Much too close.

Van, she thought. Oh, my God, Van...

The blackness was intense. It covered her, smothered her. The boots were closer now, and she thought she could hear the harsh breathing of another person in the darkness.

She began to run. Her skirts flapped back, and her eyes stared wide into the blackness.

Behind her, the boots began running too.

Chapter 12

“This is one hell of a party,” Clark Talbot said.

The man sitting next to him on the couch lifted his shaggy head, and looked at Clark with weary eyes.

“Does that mean you like it?”

“Of course, it does.”

“Your terminology was vague.”

“Terminology, allsbay.”

“One hell of a. Not explicit at all,” the shaggy man went on. “It can mean good, or it can mean not good. You should be more careful in your choice of words.”

Clark pulled a face and stared at the man. “Well, it’s a nice crowd of people, anyway.”

“If you like people.”

“Say, are you a misanthropist or something?”

“Something.”

Clark nodded vaguely. It wasn’t bad enough that he had to put with the cashew ravings of Lana Davis all day long. At night, when a man was entitled to a little pleasure and relaxation, he had to meet another bed-bug.

“Where’s Liz Welles?” he asked. “I understood she was going to be here.”

“She’ll be here,” his shaggy companion answered.

“It’s getting kind of late, isn’t it?”

“Liz will be here. Liz always likes to make a grand entrance. She’ll probably pop in wearing no clothes or something. A disturbed young lady, that one.”

Clark understood at last. “You’re a psych, aren’t you?”

“Nope.”

“What then?”

“What’s the difference?”

Clark suddenly had all he could take. “Listen, if you don’t like this damned party, why the hell don’t you go home?”

The shaggy gent turned sad eyes on Clark. “I can’t,” he said. “I’m the host.”

It was waiting.

All she had to do was pick it up and pop off. As simple as all that.

Lois Sylvan watched the hands of the chronometer. It was already ten minutes past happy time. That was good. Ten minutes, and the anticipation had mounted inside her like a screaming rocket.

She wet her lips and eyed the vial, and then stared at the hands of the chron again. It was good this way. Oh, God, it was good this way.

How much longer could she put it off?

She’d wait. She’d wait, and then it would be better, then it would be sweeter, then it would really take her, really knock her, really fix her good. She’d doubled the load, and this one should really give her a jolt, send her way back, Jack, way, way back, Zach, all the way back, Mac.

On impulse, she kicked off her slippers and walked across the room barefoot. She wore a whispering gown belted at her waist. She saw herself in the mirror, and her eyes sought the tiny puncture marks on her thigh. She found the marks, and the excitement rose within her. Now, I’ll do it now. I’ll pop it now.

No! her mind shouted. No, wait. Wait. Wait.

She waited.

She clenched her hands together and began pacing the room. It roared in her blood now, the wanting, the longing, the extreme wanting, the wanting that was sweet with its painfulness. The light caught the metallic gleam of the vial, reflected it tauntingly across the room. She had begun to tremble. Her body shook, and her loins ached, and she wanted that needle with every fibre of her being, every atom of her existence.

She wanted it desperately, but she continued to pace the room, and the longing soared inside her, quickened her blood, pounded at her brain.

There was pain now, a real physical pain, a pain separate and apart from the sweet aching of her mind. It twisted at her stomach, tied her muscles into knots, kicked at her groin.

Good God, how I want it.

Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes past happy. She’d never gone that long before. Never. Oh, it was good. She opened her mouth and sucked in a deep gulp of air.

The longing washed over her again, deep this time, stabbing at her, prodding her. It was overwhelming in its power. It engulfed her, flooded her, shoved her rudely across the room.

She picked up the vial.

Van Brant was in bed when the call came.

He rolled over and tried to shake the insistent buzzing away. When it became apparent the buzzing would not be shaken, he threw the covers back, swung his legs over the side of the bed and mumbled, “Now, who the hell...”

He crossed the room to the vid, snapped it on, and focused. There was no picture. He passed a hand over bleary eyes, tried the focus control once more. There was still no picture.

“All right,” he said harshly, “who’s playing games?”

“Van...”

The voice was weak, distant. He couldn’t place it. A woman’s voice.

“Who is it?” he asked. “I can’t see you.”

“Liz. It’s Liz, Van.” Brant heard a sharp intake of breath, and he stared at the vid, puzzled.

“What is it, Liz?”

“Bayer and One-Seven-Three, Van. Hurry. Please, please. Hurry.”

There was pain in the voice, and then a sharp exhalation of breath, as sharp as the intake had been.

“Liz! What’s wrong? What...”

There was no answer. He jiggled the operator toggle anxiously, and when the cool, precise voice came on, he said, “I’ve been sliced, operator.”

“Sorry, sir. What number were you calling?”

“I received the call.”

“Just a moment, sir.”

He waited impatiently. When the operator came back, he fairly leaped at her voice. “I’m sorry, sir. If you’ll click off, perhaps your party will call back.”

“Oh, rocks,” he said. He clicked off angrily, stared at the vid for a moment, and then walked swiftly to the closet. He threw on a pair of old breeches, debated a coat of alcojel, decided against it.

Bayer and One-Seven-Three, she’d said. If this was some kind of a gag...

When he spotted the chronometer on his dresser, he doubted that it was a gag.

It was 0300.

He found her lying on the floor of the booth.

Her skirt had been torn from her, and her underwear was gone. He blinked down at her, and when he saw the red smears on her breasts, he thought they were blood. He knelt down, realized the smears were lipstick.

“Liz,” he said.

He took her in his arms. Her body was cold, and he saw the bruises on her flesh now, ripe purple bruises that covered her, starting at her neck, working down over her bosom, onto her rib cage, her thighs, even her ankles.

“Good God, Liz, what happened? Liz!”

Her eyes fluttered open, and there was panic in them for an instant. She recognized Van then and gripped him tightly.

“You came,” she said in a rush. “You came, Van. Thank God, you came.”

“What happened, Liz?”

She shook her head, squeezed her eyelids down, forcing out the tears. She kept shaking her head, her mouth working mutely.

“You need a medic,” he said. “Come on, I’m taking you home.”

“No!” she screamed. “Van, don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me. Van...”

“We’ll go to my place,” he said. She nodded, her fear subsiding. She was still trembling when he lifted her and took her to his tomic. He drove fast, sticking to the speed lanes, ignoring the robot policemen and their cameras clicking away at his license tab. He could squash those later. He pulled into the sub garage, carried Liz to the lift, and then into his apartment. He got her into bed, and then phoned the medic.

The medic was plainly annoyed when he arrived. Sleep still clung to his eyes, and he kept rubbing at his thick nose with his forefinger.

“Where is she?” he asked. He was a tall man, with a blond spade beard, and bright red hair. A hell of a combination, Van thought.

“In the bedroom.”

“You’re not Ree, are you?”

“Hell, no.”

“I wondered,” the medic said.

“She called me; I brought her here. I think she’s in shock.”

“Nobody asked you,” the medic said. Brant clenched his fists, feeling the same impotence he always felt in the presence of medical men. A superior breed, these illidges. Or so they thought.

“She’s in the bedroom,” he repeated coldly. “I’m not paying for small chop. You going to look at her?”

The medic snapped a cold glare at Van. He seemed to be debating whether or not he should leave. The chronometer said 0355, though, and he’d already been dragged out of bed. He blinked his eyes, and turned toward the bedroom. Van followed him.

“You can wait outside,” the medic said.

He was with her for ten minutes, and when he came out, he was still rubbing his thick nose.

“How is she?”

“Shell live.”

“I didn’t need you for that.”

“I gave her a sedative. The bruises are minor, nothing serious. She’s in bad shock. I’ll leave some of these pills. See that she takes them for the next few days. Every four hours... more often if she acts up.”

“Acts up?”

“She’s been through a harrowing experience. She may react violently when she begins remembering what happened.”

“What did happen?”

“You’re pretty naive, aren’t you? She’s been raped, my friend.”

“Raped!” The thought shocked Van, disgusted him. Raped. Good God.

The medic nodded. “Mmm, not very pleasant. Let’s hope nothing more comes of it.” He looked at his wrist chronometer and then asked, “What’s she on?”

“Opaine, I think.”

“Keep her off it for the next week or so. She won’t miss it, because she’ll be under sedatives most of the time. Keep her off it, anyway, even if she wants it.”

“All right,” Van said. “What do I owe you?”

“Twenty. Night call.”

“Sure.” He made out a check, and the medic accepted it in the same curiously detached manner all medics accept money. When he left, Van bolted the front door and walked into the bedroom.

“Liz,” he called softly.

She opened her eyes and then blinked them shut against the ceilamp. He flicked the switch, and then walked across the room to turn on a small lamp on the night table.

“Thank you, Van,” she said. “Thank you for everything.”

“Get some sleep, Liz,” he said.

“I’ve... I’ve taken your bed, haven’t I?”

“The couch’ll do nicely.”

“You’re very good, Van.”

“No slop, mother. Get some sleep.”

“Yes, Van.” She grinned stupidly, her eyes almost shut already. He tucked the covers around her, walked quietly to the door, and then made the couch up for sleeping.

It was a little while before Liz was able to talk about it. Brant left her alone for most of the day, but the door was firmly bolted, and she had instructions to admit no one. He rose early, prepared breakfast for both of them, and served her in bed, leaving her to eat alone. Before he left for the office — or the shooting, or another damned appointment with Carson Fields, whichever was first on his schedule for that day — he made several sandwiches and left them together with something to drink on the night table. He respected the privacy of eating, taking his meals in the kitchen. Even this proximity made him slightly embarrassed. He consoled himself with the thought that it would not be for long. Liz was getting stronger every day, and except for the haunted look in her eyes, she was looking fine.

He usually got home at about 1730, pressed his thumb into the Identilock, and came into the apartment, being sure to call out as soon as he entered, so she’d know it was he.

She told him about it a week after he’d taken her into the apartment. He listened in shocked horror, and then shook his head sadly.

“A goddamn Ree,” he said. “Liz, they’re getting to be a menace. We’ve got to really do something about them, before...”

“No,” she said.

“No? No what? I don’t understand.”

“He wasn’t Ree, Van. He wore breeches, and there was the odor of alcojel on him; he wasn’t Ree.”

“What?”

“He was Vike, Van.” She paused. “As Vike as you or I.”

Brant thought about that for a long time. He never mentioned it again in any of their talks, but he always thought about it, and its significance lurked on the fringes of his mind. They talked about small things mostly. He was careful to lead the conversation away from that night whenever he saw it circling in that direction. He did not want the violent reaction the medic had mentioned. Liz was coming along fine, and he did not want to prolong her convalescence. She was not very much trouble, but he had lived alone too long and too successfully to wholeheartedly accept another person in the house — especially a woman.

“Are the neighbors talking?” she asked one night.

“About what?”

“About me. About ‘that woman’ in your apartment.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“This is Vike territory, isn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“And they’re not talking? Come now, Van.”

“All right, they’re talking. So what? What the hell do they know?”

“I’m sorry, Van.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. You think I care what these idiots think? You’ll be well soon, anyway, and you can go back to your own apartment.”

She didn’t answer, but he didn’t think her silence strange at the time.

She progressed nicely, and soon it was she who rose early to prepare breakfast. Van protested vigorously, complaining that she was still not strong enough for it. She laughed his rantings aside, and he enjoyed the first good breakfasts he’d had since taking her in. When he came home at night, he found the apartment spotlessly clean, his couch all made up for sleeping, his clothes neatly laundered and pressed.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said.

“You didn’t have to take me in,” she answered.

And soon, she was strong enough to leave, he felt. They sat in the living room one night, shortly after he’d popped off. He felt drowsy, and he resented her alertness. She had not asked for a fix since the night of the accident, as they both referred to it. Nor had she expressed any desire for one. At first, he’d chalked this up to the effects of the sedative. But it had been a long time since the sedative ministrations had ceased, and he wondered if she wasn’t quitting the stuff entirely. He never asked her; there was something more important to discuss, and he hoped it wouldn’t be too difficult. He broached the topic carefully.

“How do you feel, Liz?”

“Fine. How do you feel?”

“I mean, well, you know. Do you feel strong enough now?”

“Strong enough to kill an ox. Do you have any oxen around?” She was smiling, and he didn’t like this playful banter. He was trying to be serious, goddamnit. He was annoyed, too, by the fact that she wore no cosmetics around the house. It had taken him a little while to get used to natural breasts. He had found himself staring curiously at her nipples on occasion, and he was embarrassed once when he lifted his eyes to find her staring back at him.

“I mean...” He paused. “Strong enough to go back to your own place.”

“Oh.”

There was a long silence.

“Well?”

“Well...”

“Are you, or aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am.”

“I don’t mean to rush you out, Liz; please understand that. I thought...”

“I understand.”

“You’ll be coming back to work, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I...” He rubbed his jaw. “When do you plan on leaving, Liz?”

“I hadn’t planned. I can leave now, if you like.”

“There’s no great rush, Liz. That is...”

“I’m still scared, Van,” she blurted. “I’m scared silly. If I had to live alone, I think I’d die. I’d jump out of bed at every sound. I’d...”

“But, Liz, you can’t let this thing haunt you for the rest of your life. It happened, sure; but it’s over now, and you’re all right.”

“Am I?”

“Well... sure.”

“All right, Van. I’ll pack now. I’ll leave tonight.”

She stood up, and he watched her sway across the room. She swung her hips, and the cloth of her skirt clung to her buttocks.

“Couldn’t you... couldn’t you find another girl to share a place with you?”

She turned at the door to the bedroom. “I suppose so. It’ll take a little while, though. I’m the only girl at our office, you know. I’ll have to find someone.”

“Liz...”

“It’s all right, Van; I’ll find someone.”

“What I mean is, there’s no need to rush off right this minute. I mean — well, hell, Liz, I don’t want to throw you out.”

“You’re not throwing me out. Don’t be silly, Van.” She lowered her head and looked at him across the length of the room, a curious gaze from upturned eyes.

“Why don’t you stay until... until you find a girl to share a place with. Damnit, I feel like a landlord threatening eviction.”

“You needn’t feel any responsibility. You’ve done enough for me already.”

“Well, stay. I mean, stay. Stay until... stay a while. Until you’re ready.” He looked at her, feeling silly and awkward. “Okay?”

“Whatever you say, Van,” she said. She turned and walked back into the living room. He did not see the smile on her face.

Chapter 13

As the trial grew closer, there were a million petty details to take care of. Carson Fields worked like a dog, trying to forge his many defendants into a solid steel wall that would withstand the onslaught of Pelazi’s formidable case. Fields worked like the director of a tremendous production, rehearsing and re-rehearsing his clients. His case was based on an open acknowledgement of the fact that Pelazi had indeed attended the benefit. He was shrewd enough to know that Pelazi would have at least one witness to swear to that fact. Fields’ line of attack was a simple one. He would admit that Pelazi had been there, but he would prove that Pelazi had left before the show started, before any portions of the human anatomy were exposed before his eyes. If Pelazi had not been in attendance during such exposure, he could not claim infringment on the Dignity of Man, he could not rely upon 431, nor could he even hope to apply 62-A.

True, another case could follow on the heels of this one, using a totally different plaintiff. But Fields could stall that off until the Statute of Limitations forbade a trial. Such was his reasoning. One case at a time.

But in order to prove that Pelazi had left the benefit before the shooting, so to speak, started, Fields had to develop an intricate network of lies.

He planned his case with ultimate artistry. To hear Fields’ clients tell it, Pelazi had been under constant surveillance since he’d set foot into the theatre on the night of the benefit. There was a copy writer at an advertising agency who was willing to swear Pelazi lit a cigarette for him in the lobby, before the show started. There was a stereo scribe who held a ticket stub for the seat next to the one Pelazi had occupied. (A stunt facilitated by the friendship of the theatre owner, a Vike who’d been forced out of the legitimate stage competition when the Rees cornered the field. A Vike who, incidentally, was also being sued by Pelazi under Section 62-A. It was a simple thing to arrange a false seating plan.)

There were countless agents, actors, scribes, admen, photographers, chorines, and even janitors who were ready to swear that they’d seen Pelazi enter the theatre, take his seat, have a smoke, wander to the window, go to the men’s room, button his fly, adjust his tie, wipe sweat from his forehead, tie his shoelace, blow his nose, anything and everything, every movement accounted for by separate reliable witnesses, and the most important move — the move that had taken him out of the theatre and into a tomicab (the cab driver was willing to swear to this, too) before the show started — this move had been observed, too, by at least a dozen people.

So Van Brant worked; he rehearsed his own little part in the drama Fields directed. Fields was a good lawyer, and an even better director. He knew just what inflection he wanted a voice to carry. He knew just what expression should cross a client’s face, and he knew just how long he wanted that expression to be held. He knew just when any of his clients should hesitate, should stammer, should seem defiant, or embarrassed, or harried. He knew just when to break the proceeding with some welcome comic relief. He knew what he wanted, and he made sure his clients knew what he wanted, and when they complained, he simply asked, “Want to win this case?”

It took time. It took a lot of time, and time was one commodity Van could hardly afford. He knew he was not alone in this one respect. The other defendants hated this as much as he did, and he knew their time was valuable, too. This was little solace, in spite of the feeling of concerted effort Fields managed to kindle. Sure, they were going to give the Ree a tremendous slap in the face, but — as the old joke went — “Who’s watching the store?”

Van tried to watch the store.

When he got home each night, he was ready to pile into bed and sleep through the next week. Instead, he had a hot dinner and then joined Liz to hear her go over the details of the agency’s day. It was usually well past 0200 before he got into bed. He rose again at 0600 each morning, rushed to the office to open the mail and sort it, and then waited for Liz to come in before he left for the studio or Fields’ office, whichever happened to come first. It was on one of those mornings that Liz told him she’d hired Lois Sylvan.

“What for?” he asked.

“Van, we needed the help; we really did. Besides, she’s at loose ends now that the script is in production.”

“Where the hell will we get the money for her salary?”

“Things aren’t that bad, Van.”

“And who gave you the authority to do any hiring around here?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought...”

“Just because you share the apartment, don’t think you own the business! You’re still my alleged secretary!”

“I’m sorry, Van, really. I thought, with you away so much and all, that we could use someone else around here. Someone to handle the small details. It’s really been a drag, Van, believe me. I’m only human.”

“When does she start?” he asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“How much?”

“Forty and morph.”

“That’s not too bad. I’ll be watching her, though; if I think she’s not worth it, out she goes.”

“Grooved.”

He watched Lois, and was surprised, at first, to see the change that had taken place. He hadn’t seen her since the early days of production on the Senso. She’d looked Vike then, yes, and a long way from the stammering Ree who’d first stumbled into his office. But now... now... she was hopelessly hooked. Van had never seen a morphict like her...

She seemed to be efficient, however, if somewhat listless; and she did help Liz — which was all they expected of her. Walt Alloway generally accompanied her to the office in the morning, and called for her after work each evening.

He continued at the grinding pace for a good two weeks, averaging some four hours sleep each night. And one morning, when the mail was especially light, Van wandered into the stock room, and nosed around.

Lois pranced in at nine, her breasts sparkling with an iridescent glow. Her skirt was the most daring thing he’d ever seen in any place of business; it consisted of a single thin strip that hung over her buttocks. Her underwear was transparent, and fully exposed.

“That’s going a little far, isn’t it?” he asked.

She glanced at her near-nudity, lifted her eyes. She shrugged. “Kicks, father.”

“Kicks? What the hell...”

“Look, Van,” she snapped. “You told me how to dress once. I’m a big girl now; don’t try telling me again.”

“I don’t give a damn what you wear on your own time,” he answered. “In this office, though, don’t look as if you’re ready to crawl into some goddamn Ree’s nest.”

“You’re insulting!”

“And so’s that skirt!”

“All right,” she shouted. “Would you like me to go home and change it?”

“No. But there are a few things I’d like to know.”

“Like what?”

“Like who’s in charge of the stock room now?”

“I am.”

“I thought so. What happened to our supply of drugs? Did you forget to reorder, or has someone been using it for private parties?”

“Neither. Swift’s is out.”

“Out of drugs? Are you...”

“Out of drugs, yes.”

“Then why didn’t you order elsewhere?”

“I tried. There seems to be a scarcity of the stuff.”

“Of drugs?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes, yes, of drugs. Don’t you understand when I...”

“What the hell’s wrong with you, Lois?”

“Nothing. I haven’t had a fix yet; that’s all.”

“Well, go take one then, and we’ll talk business when you’ve popped.”

“There’s none in the office. You saw that yourself.”

He was beginning to get a little exasperated. “Then why didn’t you pop before you left your house?”

“Because I’m all out, too, and I couldn’t get any.”

“I’ve got plenty at my place,” he said. “Send one of the kids when they come in.”

“Morph?” she asked, an eager light in her eyes.

“Morph mostly. A guest supply of a few others. Have you tried all the drug outfits?”

“Yes, all of them.”

“The private pushers?”

“All of them.”

“Probably a small shortage. Maybe a shipment got fouled.” He shrugged. “Has Liz got you doing any of the marketing?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I wanted to ask you about something. We usually get checks from Vizco and Young and Coon Thursdays; there were none in this morning’s mail. Any idea what’s wrong?”

“Yes. They’ve both been taken over by a new outfit.”

“Oh? What’s the name of the new owner?”

“Listen, do you suppose I could call a messenger service and get them to stop at your place for the morph?”

“Better yet, call Liz. She probably hasn’t left yet. She’ll bring it for you.”

“Good. Good. I’ll do that.”

She started for the door and Van said, “Hey, what’s the name of the new outfit?”

“Pall Associates,” she called over her shoulder.

He ran into Deborah Dean the week before the trial. She was hurrying to catch a pneumotube, and she almost knocked him over.

“Hey,” he said, “what’s the rush?”

She looked up at him for a moment, puzzled, and then said, “Van! How good.” She grasped his hand firmly, squeezed it hard. “It’s awfully nice to see you. What are you doing?”

“Well, I’ve been pretty busy.”

“This Belly thing?” She smiled knowingly. “Pelazi has certainly started something, hasn’t he? I don’t think there’s a Vike in sight who isn’t talking about it.”

“He’s going to be sorry he started,” Van promised.

“Yes. I understand everyone is getting together to squash him. Is that right?”

Brant nodded happily, studying Deborah. She’d changed a great deal. She wore her hair long now, curling about her neck. There were no contacts on her eyes, and he noticed for the first time that their natural color was a somewhat muddy brown. She’d put on weight, of course, so he assumed her trips to the Inseminary had been successful. She wore a maternity breast sheath that fully covered her bosom, and her skirt ended just above the knees, much longer than anything he’d ever seen on her. She wore flats, but he attributed that to her condition.

“Well, I guess we’ve all been busy,” she said. Her eyes seemed to sparkle, making him forget the drabness of their color for a moment. This hardly seemed like the vivacious Deborah he’d once known. And yet, there was something new about her that hadn’t been there before either. A glow almost. Hell, he thought, that’s corny. A glow. Rocks.

She glanced at her wrist chronometer and said, “I must run, Van. Are you going downtown?”

He’d been heading for Carson Fields’ office when he met her. “Yes,” he said, “I am.”

“Good, we’ll share a car.”

They caught a dual car, and they sat side by side as the buildings sped by in a blur outside. They talked of little things, neither of them mentioning the change in her. He wondered if he should ask her for the money she’d promised, but he still felt like a stranger, and he decided that could wait until they really needed it.

The topic somehow swung to drugs, and he asked, “Have you been having trouble getting fixed, Deb?”

She smiled tolerantly. “I’m off it, Van; I’m having a baby, you know. They don’t mix well.”

“You look grand,” he said.

“I feel grand. I really do. I feel better than I’ve ever felt. It’s quite a wonderful thing, Van. It’s a shame it’s such an exclusive experience.”

“Exclusive?”

“Women only.”

He smiled. “Oh, yes.”

They watched the buildings flash by outside. Autumn had lingered longer than it should have. The trees were bare of leaves now, but the air was still refreshingly mild when it should have been bitingly cold.

“I wish winter would come,” she said.

“I don’t like winter,” he answered.

“Too much clothing? Even though it’s see-thru?” There was a smile on her face; he didn’t understand the smile, and it irritated him.

“Well, yes,” he said defensively.

“But so good. Such a good season. So cold outside, and so warm inside. I always think of pot belly stoves in the winter, Van. Cherry red, so hot that you can spit at them and hear them sizzle. I love winter.”

“I’m a summer man,” he said. “Swimming, sand, outdoor parties.”

“Parties,” she said. There was a sadness in her voice, or was it that? He didn’t quite know. He stared at her, and there was that same wistful smile on her face. He wondered for a moment if she had snapped her lid. Hell, she sounded rational enough.

“I hope it’s not a mild winter,” she went on. “I like them with a lot of snow, the kind that stays crisp on top because the weather turns cold right afterwards. That kind.” She seemed to sense his indifference, and she turned and smiled ingratiatingly. “Forgive me, Van, I didn’t mean to run on so.”

“That’s quite all right.”

“It’s just that I’m so happy now, you see.”

“Yes, of course,” he said. “I’m glad the Inseminar was a success.”

She hesitated a moment before answering. “Well... not exactly.”

He didn’t catch her meaning at first. When it hit him, he stared at her in surprise. A feeling of revulsion gripped him, and he almost wanted to leap out of the car to get away from her.

“I thought you knew,” Deborah said softly. “Rog Moore and I are married.”

“Married!”

Deborah turned away from him and gazed steadily through the window of the car. “A person gets tired of parties,” she said after a while.

There was only one thing wrong with the trial tactics of Carson Fields, attorney at law, and lie did not — unfortunately — discover that one thing until the day of the trial.

When prosecuting attorney Corona’s first witness took the stand, Fields was still smiling confidently at his table near the judge’s bench. His assembled clients had been delegated one entire portion of the courtroom, a portion which afforded them a good view of the bench, the witness’ chair, the jury box, and the long bank of windows overlooking Court Square. Van Brant sat among the gathered defendants, and when he saw the smile on Fields’ face, he couldn’t help smiling himself. Pelazi was in for a hell of a licking, and there was nothing Van would enjoy more. And to top it all, Fields was ready to present a few Suzy Q’s of his own, the second this trial was decided in favor of his clients. Ah yes, the entire thing looked as rosy as a posy. Van sat back to enjoy it.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” the court attendant was saying, and Corona’s witness said, “I do,” and then Corona looked at the jury for a moment before walking over to the chair. He raised one leg onto the dais, stared at his witness, and then said, “Suppose you tell the court just where you were on the night of June thirtieth of this year?”

“Objection!” Fields said. “Defense attorney would appreciate knowing the witness’ name.”

The judge looked down from the bench, surprised that a veteran like Alfred Corona — even if he were a Ree — would pull such a boner.

“Will the prosecution...”

“Forgive me,” Corona said softly, and then he asked his witness, “Your name, please, sir?” Fields sat down triumphantly, and Van smiled again, convinced the trial had got off on the right foot.

“Sigmund Weiss,” the witness said.

“Thank you, Mr. Weiss. Can you tell us now where you were on the night of June thirtieth?”

“I was with Mr. Pelazi, sir,” Weiss said.

“Do you see Mr. Pelazi anywhere in this courtroom?” Corona asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you mind pointing him out to the court, please?”

Weiss pointed to where Pelazi sat at his table, his legs crossed, his hands folding and unfolding a sheet of paper.

“That is Mr. Pelazi,” Weiss said.

“Thank you,” Corona said. “And where did you and Mr. Pelazi go, Mr. Weiss, on that night of June thirtieth?”

“To the Beldame Theatre to watch a Vike benefit.”

“Will you tell us at what time you first saw Mr. Pelazi on that evening?”

“Yes, sir. It was approximately 1930, sir.”

“And where was this?”

“At my home, sir. Mr. Pelazi stopped by for me.”

“And did you go directly to the theatre when you left your home?”

“Yes, sir, we did.”

“Thank you, Mr. Weiss. That will be all.”

Brant almost chuckled out loud. Fields had anticipated all this. A witness to establish the fact that Pelazi had gone to the theatre. He was surprised that Corona hadn’t tried to show that Pelazi had remained there during the show, but so much the better for the Vike case. Fields was walking to the dais now, regarding the witness with cold suspicion. He cleared his throat, pointed a pencil at Weiss, and then asked, “You say you left your home at approximately 1930. Are you sure about that time?”

“As sure as I can be, sir. I didn’t say it was exactly 1930. I said approximately. A few minutes before, or a few minutes later.”

“How many minutes?”

“Objection,” Corona said. “Defense is attempting to disparage the witness’ testimony, asking for admissions beyond the scope of witness’ direct knowledge. If...”

“I am merely attempting, your honor,” Fields said, “to arrive at a definition for ‘a few minutes.’ When a woman is dressing for a ball, a few minutes can be two hours.”

The court snickered, and Corona said, “Witness is not a woman, your honor. By common definition, few implies not many. We can take it to mean...”

“Your honor...” Fields said.

“Order in the court!” the judge said, pounding his gavel. “Will the witness please define the expression ‘few minutes.’ ”

“Five minutes either way,” Weiss said.

“Thank you,” Fields said. “Tell me, Mr. Weiss, how do you know it was close to 1930?”

“I’d pulled a message from the Private Communicator at 1920. Dino... Mr. Pelazi came in shortly after that, and we left almost immediately. That’s how I know it was very close to 1930, five minutes either way.”

“I see. And you went directly to the Beldame Theatre when you left your home, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Mr. Pelazi was with you, is that also correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what did you do when you got to the Beldame?”

“We took our seats.”

“Which seats were those?”

“Fourth row, second and third seats from the aisle.”

“Which aisle?”

“The one on the right.”

“Did you and Mr. Pelazi sit together then, Mr. Weiss?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Side by side, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you happen to see who was sitting on the other side of Mr. Pelazi?”

“No, sir.”

“And you sat alongside Mr. Pelazi all night, is that right?”

“No, sir.”

Fields seemed surprised. Van watched the surprise cross his face, and he suddenly wondered what Corona had up his sleeve.

“You did not sit alongside Mr. Pelazi all night?” Fields asked.

“No, sir, I did not.”

“But for a portion of the night?” Fields asked, smiling.

“Yes, sir.”

“And where did you sit for the remaining portion of the night?”

“I didn’t sit,” Weiss said. “I went home to bed.”

The court began mumbling, and the judge banged on his desk again. Corona sat at the table with Pelazi, apparently undisturbed by his witness’ peculiar admission.

“You went home, Mr. Weiss?” Fields pounced.

“Yes, Sir.”

“At what time?” he asked quickly.

“At about 2100, sir.”

“Exactly 2100?”

“No, sir. A few minutes before or after.”

“By earlier definition, I take a few minutes to mean five minutes. Is that what you mean?”

“Yes, sir, give or take five minutes.”

“Then, am I to understand that on the evening of June thirtieth, you left Mr. Pelazi at the Beldame Theatre and went home to sleep, and you left Mr. Pelazi there roughly between 2055 and 2105, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And did you see Mr. Pelazi again that night?”

“No, sir. I did not.”

“Defense rests,” Fields said. He walked back to his table beaming happily, and Van leaned forward in his seat. Corona hadn’t seemed like an egghead, but this was certainly a hell of a way to start off. His entire case hinged on proving Pelazi had been at the theatre and had seen the show. And now his first witness had admitted leaving at about 2100, just about when the show was starting.

“Call Paul O’Leary,” Corona said, and the court began buzzing again until the witness had taken the stand. He was a tall boy with red hair, an obvious Ree. He took the chair nonchalantly, and he was sworn in quickly. Corona stepped over to him and asked, “Your name, sir?”

“Paul O’Leary.”

“And your occupation, Mr. O’Leary.”

“I’m an usher at the Beldame Theatre,” O’Leary said.

“Are you now so occupied?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And were you so occupied on the night of June thirtieth past?”

“Yes, sir, I was.”

“Would you please look at that gentleman, Mr. O’Leary?” Corona asked. He pointed to Pelazi where he sat at the table, and Pelazi lifted his head while O’Leary looked.

“Do you recognize him?” Corona asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know his name, sir,” O’Leary said.

“Then how do you know him?”

“He asked me for a program, sir.”

“When was this?”

“On June thirtieth, sir.”

“At the Beldame Theatre?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you give him a program?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“And what time was this?”

“2110, sir.”

“Objection!” Fields snapped, leaping to his feet. “Witness cannot possibly remember...”

“If the court please,” Corona said, “witness will validate his statement.” He paused. “Provided the prosecution may continue without any further interruptions.”

“Overruled,” the judge said. “Proceed.”

“How do you know you gave this gentleman a program at 2110, Mr. O’Leary?”

“He called me over just as the house lights were being dimmed, sir. He asked me for the program, and I gave it to him, and then the lights went out, and the curtain went up.”

“At 2110?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How do you know it was 2110?”

“The curtain always goes up at 2110, sir. You see we have a preset board at the Beldame. It takes care of dimming the lights at the start of the show, closing the rear doors, releasing the locks on the emergency exits, and raising the curtain, all automatically. It’s always set for 2110, sir.”

“Thank you,” Corona said. “That’s all.”

He went back to the table, and Fields came to the stand, rubbing his jowls. O’Leary was a thin boy, and Fields seemed fatter standing next to him. He leaned over now, and the material of his breeches tightened over his ample buttocks.

“How are your eyes, Mr. O’Leary?” Fields asked.

“Twenty-twenty, sir,” O’Leary said.

“You’re quite certain? We can call in a court physician, you know, and I don’t have to warn you about perju...”

“Objection!” Corona shouted.

“Sustained. Defense will not threaten any witness in my courtroom,” the judge said angrily.

Fields cleared his throat. “How dim were the lights when Mr. Pelazi first called you over? Mr. Pelazi, the gentleman you identified.”

“They weren’t dim at all, sir. They were up to full brightness. He called me over, and then the lights began to dim.”

“You said earlier that he called you over ‘just as the house lights were being dimmed.’ Now, were the house lights being dimmed, or weren’t they? Make up your mind.”

“He called me over, and I went to him, and then the lights started to dim.”

“Did you see his face?”

“Of course.”

“Or was it too dark to see his face?”

“It was very bright, sir. I got a good look at him before the lights began to dim. It was that man, sir.”

“How do you know this was at 2110?”

“The curtain...”

“Yes, but how do you know the curtain was preset for 2110?”

“I saw it, sir.”

“Where?”

“Backstage, sir.”

“Do you customarily wander backstage to look at the control board? Is that part of an usher’s duties?”

“No, sir, it is not; I went backstage to see my girl friend.”

The court tittered, but Fields pressed on. “Is your girl friend in charge of the control board?”

“No, sir! she was hired to help with the wardrobe.”

“She was then, in effect, working for the show?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you aware that under Section 62-A of Statute 431, she could be held liable for...”

“Objection!” Corona said. “The witness’ acquaintance was not summoned, and the plaintiff is not bringing suit against her.”

“Sustained.”

“Or that you, Mr. O’Leary, as an employee of the theatre in which the benefit was held, could also...”

“Objection!” Corona said.

“Defense will refrain from this line of questioning,” the judge said drily. “Witness is not on trial. Nor is his girl friend.”

“I was simply wondering, your honor, why they are not on trial, that’s all. Everyone else seems to be.”

“Request that be removed from the record, your honor,” Corona said.

“Request granted.” The judge turned to the recorder. “Strike that last from the record.”

Fields grunted. “Defense rests,” he said.

Brant still didn’t know what was going on, but he vaguely suspected that Corona had won that round. Corona’s approach didn’t become clear until the next witness took the stand, and then it became damned clear.

“Your name, sir?”

“Franklin Beade.”

“Were you at the Beldame Theatre on the night of the June thirtieth benefit?”

“Yes, sir, I was.”

“Will you tell the court what happened at 2115?”

“I got sick,” Beade said.

“Sick, sir?”

“To my stomach. I’d had clams for dinner. Clams never did agree with me. I also tried a cigarette. I should have known better. Cigarettes...”

“Objection!” Fields said. “Anti-Vike propaganda is being introduced into the witness’...”

“Sustained,” the judge said. “Witness will stick to the facts.”

“I was sick to my stomach,” Beade said.

“What did you do?”

“I got up and headed for the men’s room.”

“Was the show on at this time?”

“Yes, sir. It had been on for about five minutes.”

“Did you go directly to the men’s room?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Well, sir, I guess I was in a hurry. I got out into the aisle, and then I stumbled.”

“And what happened then?”

“Someone helped me up.”

“Who helped you?”

Beade pointed to Pelazi. “That man, sir.”

“Are you sure it was that man?” Corona asked, anticipating Field’s cross-questioning. “Wasn’t the theatre dark?”

“Oh, yes, sir, it was. I didn’t see his face until we got to the men’s room. It was that man, all right.”

“And are you sure this was at 2115, five minutes after the show had started?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How do you know that?”

“There’s is a big chronometer at the back of the theatre, sir. When I slipped and fell, I found myself staring right up at the chron. It was 2115; you can bet on that.”

“How long did you remain in the men’s room with Mr. Pelazi, the gentleman you just identified.”

“About five minutes. He helped me loosen my tie and... well, he helped me while I was sick. Then he stood by while I washed up. He looked at his watch then and said, ‘It’s 2120. We’d better get back or we’ll miss the show!’ ”

“Mr. Pelazi said this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Beade.”

It was clear now, very clear. It was clear to Van, and it was clear to every defendant in that courtroom, and it was exceptionally clear to Fields. He cross-examined the witness, but Van could see his heart wasn’t in it. Fields was thinking ahead, Brant knew, anticipating what was to come, dreading what was to come.

It came. It came with precision planning behind it. One by one, Corona paraded his witnesses. One by one, they took the stand, and each witness swore for Pelazi’s whereabouts, pinpointed those whereabouts in time and place. One by one, they swore to having seen him at the theatre: the washroom attendant who brushed off his coat when he left the men’s room with Beade; the usher who showed both men to their seats again. There was the man behind Pelazi who asked him to stop moving in his seat so much, the woman who stepped on Pelazi’s toe while moving out to the aisle, the three men Pelazi talked with during intermission. Then came the man from whom Pelazi borrowed a light, during that same intermission, a third usher of whom Pelazi asked the time, another usher of whom Pelazi asked what time the show ended. There was the man in the lobby from whom Pelazi bought an orange crush, the woman in front of Pelazi who asked him not to make so much noise sipping at the drink, on and on. Each witness presented a time, each witness having seen Pelazi all through the show, right up to the time he left, right up to the young lady he picked up during the second intermission, the young lady who left the show with him when it was all over.

It was tighter than a drum, and it hurt. It hurt because it was Field’s own strategy — but Corona had pulled it first. It hurt because Fields had underestimated his enemy, figured it all wrong, figured the Rees would drag in a few witnesses to establish Pelazi’s attendance, but not this. Fields had not anticipated this juggernaut of people, all lying their heads off, all apparently well-rewarded for their services. No, not this.

Van Brant got to him first when the recess was called. He found Fields shooting up on Corradon, and he took out his own vial of morph and shot up with him. He needed a clear head now. He wanted to talk this all out with Fields, and the morph would help him.

“What are we going to do?” he asked.

Fields was perspiring heavily. The beads of sweat clung to his brow and his lip, rolled off the layers of fat on his neck, streamed down his naked chest.

“We go on with the case.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just the way we planned it.”

“That’s crazy!” Van said. “Can’t you see he’s stolen our thunder? For godsakes, man, wake up!”

“What the hell do you want me to do? Prepare a new case right this minute? He’s got us by the...”

“Ask for a delay. Ask for a longer recess. Ask for an adjournment until tomorrow — do something.”

“No,” Fields said, shaking his head. “No.”

“Carse...”

“No. We fight it through. We present our witnesses; we parade them just the way Corona did. They’ll tell stories conflicting with the ones Corona’s witnesses told. Somebody’s got to be lying, and we’ll leave it to the jury to decide.”

“That’s a hell of a way to do things,” Van said. “Suppose...”

“What else can we do? He beat us to the punch,” Fields said. “The goddamn illidge beat us to the...”

“What about the jury?”

“Mixed. Half Vike, half Ree; we’ve got a chance.”

“Have Vikes ever decided against Vikes?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Well, have they?”

“Of course. I helped pick six unbiased Rees for the jury. You can bet the six Vikes Corona agreed to are unbiased, too.”

“So it’s all in their laps.” Van laughed bitterly. “Goddamnit, justice is really going to prevail at this thing, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” Fields said sourly. “Both sides will lie their heads off, and then an honest jury will render a decision.” He wiped the sweat from his lip. “Justice.”

Fields paraded his witnesses, and the jury listened. And then they went out to make their decision. They knew that certain parts of the human anatomy had been exposed at the benefit. It was for them to decide whether or not Pelazi had been there to see that exposure, whether or not his dignity had been offended. And perhaps it was simply because Corona was a better lawyer than Fields that they decided as they did. Van Brant did not think so. Corona had plainly got there fustest with the mostest; the jury brought in a verdict in favor of Dino Pelazi.

The court became a screaming mob when the verdict was read off. Van saw Pelazi get to his feet and start for the doors. He shoved his way out into the aisle, collaring Pelazi while the crowd screamed and the judge rapped his gavel.

“You won, didn’t you?” he said.

“It would appear that way,” Pelazi said, smiling.

“Every one of your witnesses was lying!” Van shouted over the voices around him.

“As were yours,” Pelazi said.

“You admit it? You admit it?”

“The trial is over,” Pelazi said. “I’ve won. You’d best listen to the judge while he reads off the settlements.”

“You bastard,” Van said. “You slimy bastard. Pelazi, what the hell do you think all this is going to get you?”

“Money, for one thing,” Pelazi said, smiling. “I can do a lot with money.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, just that. It’s nice to have money, don’t you think?”

Van stared at him curiously. “Is that why you did all this? Just for the money?”

“No, Mr. Brant. I had another reason — a far greater reason. But then, you’ll be learning about that soon.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ll see,” Pelazi said, smiling.

“You’re pretty cocky, aren’t you? You win a crummy little case, and right away you get that confident look in your eye. You really make me laugh, Pelazi. Damnit, don’t you realize this is small potatoes?”

Pelazi was still smiling, and his eyes were brimming with confidence now, sparkling with the shine of his victory. “Yes, Mr. Brant,” he said, “I realize this is small potatoes. I realize it very well, Mr. Brant. But I’ve hoed the potatoes very carefully, and potatoes are nice big vegetables, don’t you think, even when they’re small potatoes. Yes, Mr. Brant, very small potatoes, but a lot of big people were scrambling to pick them up, weren’t they?” Pelazi laughed suddenly, a high laugh that rose above the shouting in the courtroom. “Mr. Brant.” he said, “this is just the beginning. Just the beginning. Just the small potatoes.”

He pulled himself free and then shoved his way out of the courtroom, and Brant thought of the confident gleam in his eye, and then he thought of what Pelazi had said.

“Just the beginning.”

The beginning of what?

The report came through on all communications, private and public. It came after a rugged two weeks during which drugs had dwindled down to a mere trickle. It came on the evening after the trial.

Van was at home, getting ready for bed. Liz had gone to one of the legit shows, in spite of his protests against it. He’d denounced her as a Ree, but she’d laughingly dressed in her sheerest skirt, kissed him on the cheek — which enfuriated him more — and then breezingly left the apartment. He’d sulked for a while, vowing to kick her out in the morning. He was getting tired of this cramped living, and the extra bed didn’t help the appearance of the place at all. Besides, ever since his chance meeting with Deborah, he’d begun to suspect Liz of ulterior motives. The thought sickened him, and he wanted to squash anything like that immediately.

In the morning. Walking papers. So long, sweetie, it’s been grand. Adios. Good-bye.

He buttoned his pajamas, lit a cigarette, and then snapped on the Communicator, scanning the message as they taped out of the machine.

The report read:

COM PRI-PUB DISPATCH 38C 4213 X WASHINGTON, D.C. AUGUST 12, 2174 X EFFECTIVE 0001 AUGUST 15, 2174, ALL DRUGS, NARCOTICS, STIMULANTS, DEPRESSIVES ILLEGAL EXCEPT

MEDICINALLY ADMINISTERED BY LICENSED PHYSICIANS X JOINT SESSION CONGRESS TODAY VOTED UNANIMOUSLY IN FAVOR BILL PROHIBITING SALE OF NARCOTICS FOR PRIVATE CONSUMPTION X EXTREME SERIOUSNESS OF SITUATION WAIVED DELAY IN FAVOR OF IMMEDIATE RESUMPTION OF RESTRICTIONS X THREE DAY GRACE PERIOD GRANTED AFTER STRONG VIKE PROTESTS BUT LAW EFFECTIVE AUGUST 15 X OFFENDERS LIABLE TO ARREST AND PROSECUTION XX COM PRI DISPATCH PERSONAL 38C 4214 JOHN HARRIDON FROM MARY HARRIDON X JOHN PLEASE BRING HOME TWO POUNDS BACON X HALF DOZEN EGGS X ONE

He tore the tape off and held it in trembling hands. This was impossible. This was utterly fantastic. He rushed to the bedroom, then remembered that Liz wasn’t home. Of all the times to visit a Ree show. He ran to the vid, punched out Hayden Thorpe’s number, let it buzz six times before he gave up. He tried Walt next, and when he got no answer there, he called Clark Talbot in desperation.

Clark didn’t look well; he didn’t look well at all. He blinked his eyes at the screen, wet his lips with his tongue.

“That you, Van?” he asked.

“Yes, Clark. Did you see the latest on the Com?”

“About the narcotics?”

“Yes.”

“They’ve been running that every ten minutes. Where you been goofing, father?”

“Is it straight goods?”

“The straightest. It’s on the public communicators, too. You can’t get bum dope on those.”

“Well, what the hell are we going to do? What does it all mean? I thought we had a Vike majority in Congress.”

“Majorities don’t mean beans, Van. You spread a little moo in the right places, and majorities become minorities overnight. Don’t you know politics?”

“But... I mean... well, where are we going to get our stuff?”

Clark gave a short, dry laugh that sounded more like a cackle. “Jest me not, father,” he said. “I’ve been cool for the past nine days. I couldn’t raise a drop of herrocoke no matter how hard I tried. So this makes it illegal, so what? If you can’t get it, what difference does it make if somebody says you’re not allowed to get it? Father, I’ve been down, really.”

“Nine days,” Van said incredulously.

“Cooler and cooler, and now I’m almost cold. It was rough, tough stuff, Van. I thought I was done a few days ago. I was ready to make out a will.”

“What about now? I mean...”

“Now?” Clark asked. “Now?” Van looked into his eyes. They were vacuous and lonely. Something of a smile played on his lips and then died there. “No mo, Van. Gone. From my body, anyway. In my mind... in my mind...” He sighed deeply, then changed the subject abruptly. “Have you sold anything of mine lately?”

“What?” Van asked, still a little dazed.

“My stuff. Any sales, any checks coming?”

“Oh. Well, it’s been rough, Clark. Lots of changes throughout the field. New owners, new policies. You know how these things work.”

“Yeah,” Clark said drily. “Well, without a habit, all I have to worry about is food. Think you can scrape up enough for that? I mean, in addition to what Lana Davis gets me.”

Van managed to laugh weakly. “Hell, Clark, stop talking like a...”

“Ree?” Clark asked. He began laughing then, continued to laugh until Van clicked off.

Van walked to the home bar, checked the vials there. He was almost out. These past two weeks of non supply had just about taken all he had. His hands were trembling when he pulled the lid shut. He felt like talking to someone, anyone. He thought of Hayden, realized he was out. The same applied to Walt. He picked up the Com report and looked at it again. He shook his head, threw the paper onto an end table. Where had Liz gone? The Imperial? Was that the name of the theatre? Imperial? It sounded right. He’d check the name of the show in the papers. He dressed quickly and left the apartment.

He was not prepared for what he found in the streets.

Chapter 14

All traffic had been stopped on the street levels. The robot policemen had their hands full as small cars piled up one behind the other, their horns blaring shrilly. Everyone seemed to be in the streets. There was swearing and shouting and cursing and singing and drunken revelry. The Rees commanded the night, and they reeled about everywhere, proclaiming their major victory to the neon skies. Every Vike he passed stared at Brant dejectedly, sharing silently the blow of their defeat.

He started for the sub garage, and then realized the folly of even attempting to use his own car. He fought his way to the curb, set the electronic hailing system and waited for a pneumotube car. He glanced at the box after waiting several moments, and saw the blue light that indicated the cars were not running.

But then, how could they possibly hope to run the system efficiently in all this confusion? He thought of Liz, stranded downtown at the legit, and he wondered how she’d ever get home. He was heading back for the apartment when a wave of Rees swept him along the sidewalk.

“Hey,” he shouted, “what the hell...”

The Rees didn’t hear him. They sang and they shouted, and they roared and bellowed to the night. They wore masks and costumes; they waved flags and banners; they threw confetti and blew horns and shook rattles. He tried to fight his way free of them, was carried halfway down the street until he broke loose.

“We’ll hang the Vikes

“As high as kites

“And teach the tykes

“The way that’s right!”

He was hemmed in on all sides, and the singing rang in his ears, loud, raucous, triumphant. He used his shoulders and his elbows, and he tried to push free of the jostling crowd.

“We’ll holler Ree

“And foller Ree

“And toler-ate

“No one but

“REE!”

He jabbed his elbow into a man’s side, and the man whirled, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth slack.

“Who the hell...”

“Get out of my way, you pig,” Van shouted.

“REE, REE, REE, REE!

“Free the Ree,

“And spike the Vike!

“REE, REE, REE, REE!’”

“You looking for trouble, you goddamn nudist?”

“Get out of my way!”

He pushed rudely, and the Ree stumbled backward, colliding with a Ree woman. The two embraced briefly, shouted at each other, and then began laughing. Van pushed another Ree aside and broke into a clearing on the sidewalk. He’d taken three steps when another group of Rees swept down the street. He felt himself spinning around, and then someone thrust a bottle at him.

“Here, you bastard, have a drink!”

He lashed out viciously in a back-handed sweep, knocking the bottle out of the Ree’s fist. Whiskey splashed into the air, soaking both himself and the Ree. The Ree began swearing, and the crowd swept past, carrying Van with it.

They screamed, and they laughed; the noise deafened Brant, and put a razor-sharp edge on his nerves. He felt like a man in a nightmare, a man striking out at inflated balloons that broke free of their strings and floated upward whenever he struck. There was no escape. The streets were thronged with Rees; they swept along like a fast-moving hurricane, victory in their beaming faces, and in their whiskey-slurred voices, and in their boisterous songs.

“Stop the Vike

“And mop the Vike

“And slap the map of the

“Goddamned Vike!”

These were the old songs, the songs that were in vogue when the Vike Movement first reached out for a tentative grip, the songs that were confident of victory then — the songs that Van Brant thought he’d never hear again. And with the words, a vibrant undercurrent — a dangerous undercurrent of tension, like a powderkeg with a short fuse. He heard the words, and he listened to the voices; he was shoved and pushed and jostled, and steered down the street to an open oval park squatting in the center of the city like a green frog. The revelers poured into the park, spilled onto the green lawns, climbed the rocks and the trees and overturned benches. They broke lamp post fixtures, kissed, and embraced, and danced, and jigged; they did handstands, and tore off their shirts. He watched all this, carried along in the tide of jubilant faces, and his mind groped for some familiar thing to which he could anchor his reeling reactions. There was none. The other Vikes were as bewildered as he; they floundered hopelessly, helplessly, in the Ree current. The park was overflowing with Rees now, crowded to capacity, threatening to burst its boundaries and spill over onto the concrete of the city.

The tide paused for a moment near the old band platform. Banners fluttered in the autumn breeze; pennants caught the wind and danced on the air, shouting colorfully from the platform railing. The crowd surrounded the platform, and a speaker there clenched his fists and opened his throat to the night, his hair blowing freely in the wind.

“This is the beginning!” he shouted. “This is only the beginning! The chains of bondage have been broken. The glorious golden age of the Ree is at our doorstep!”

The crowd shouted its approval, and the air rocked with the dissonant cries. The speaker tossed his head, opened his mouth, lifted his hands, and the crowd fell silent.

“We have crushed the insidious serpent of addiction, trampled it into the Vike-inspired mire! The golden bird of the Realist will spread its wings and soar, higher and higher into an unblemished sky!”

Again the cries of approval, the shouted encouragement, while the whiskey bottles were tipped, and breasts were cupped, and hips were fondled, and eyes kindled with almost fanatic enthusiasm. The spindly arms were raised, the thin fingers spread, the shaggy mane tossed back, and the crowd grew hushed in expectant waiting.

“We will move onward!” the speaker shouted. “Forever onward, and upward, to crush the Vikes, to crush the Vikes, to crush the Vikes!”

And the crowd took up the chant.

“Crush the Vikes!” they bellowed, and Van Brant knew fear for the first time that night.

“Crush the Vikes!” they screamed, and he tried desperately to break free of the circle that hemmed him in.

A Vike closer to the platform turned and wheeled, and the blood cry went up from a thousand Ree throats. Van saw the hands reaching for the Vike, saw him lifted high, saw his body passed along like a bottle, out to the fringes of the circle. The crowd enjoyed the sport. They had a Vike now, and they followed the body, like vultures following a weakened man on a desert, and Van broke away and ran in the opposite direction. Behind him, he could still hear the speaker shouting, his voice high and strident, caught on the wind, snatches of words torn from his lips.

He took a narrow, unlighted path; he ran with the sweat clinging to his body, soaking him, a cold, clammy, clinging sweat that chilled him. He ran, and he heard the cries behind him as the sport with the Vike increased. The path was dimly lit, most of the fixtures having been destroyed by the Rees. He saw dim outlines of forms sprawled out on the grass flanking the path. He did not slacken his pace. The park was still a nightmare world, a world of torches and banners and confetti and screams. Rockets sped into the blackness of night, scattered their molten drippings, burst in star-shell brilliance. Far off from the river, he could hear the mournful blast of the river boats, incessantly bleating their horns, joining in the celebration.

He rounded a bend, and four Ree women stood there, blocking the road. A blowsy blonde, her breasts billowing in a tight maroon sweater shouted, “Here’s one!”

They moved forward, and he wheeled like a trapped rabbit, started back up the path. The other Ree women poured from the bushes, and they stood around him in a tight circle now, ten strong. He shoved at the circle and was shoved back. He fell to his knees, and he looked up at long skirts, stiff with the girdles beneath them, up to throat-constricting sweaters, breasts held high and tight in brassieres. A bottle made the rounds of the circle, passing from unpainted lip to unpainted lip. Long hair fell shoulder length, lifted by the wind. The circle tightened, and the blonde stepped forward, yanked him to his feet, pulled his head against her bosom. It was hard and unyielding, and he felt the wire of the bra beneath the sweater. It pressed against his cheek, and her arms tightened around him. He kicked out, and she dropped him, and the circle grew tighter and tighter, and then the hands reached for him, pulling at his breeches.

“You dirty bitches!” he shouted.

He felt the breeches loosen about his waist, felt the rush of cold air against his thighs as the breeches were pulled lower. He kicked out, trying to tangle the cloth, but the breeches were pulled free, and he felt his boots leave his feet at the same time.

“Come on, Vike,” one of the women shouted. “Come on, Vike, we’ll show you what it’s like!”

He felt his head rudely jerked back, a hand cupping his chin, another grasping his forehead. The circle was growing now, with Ree spectators laughing and shouting, screaming their delight. He felt hands on his chest, his thighs, his groin. He felt himself taken rudely, felt his mouth being forced open. The liquor spilled into his throat, gagging him so that he almost spit it all up. He tried to jerk his head away, but there was more whiskey and more hands; the whiskey ate at his stomach like acid, and the hands claimed his body, working in a rude massage. He was sick and he wanted to retch; still the whiskey came, searing its way down his throat, smoother then, the fumes consuming his brain. He smelled women, women all around him, women with flashing legs and strong thighs. They straddled him and they climbed and clambered and they fought and shrieked. Their lips covered his body; he shouted, and they shouted him down, and when he opened his mouth, the bottle was always waiting, and when the bottle was removed, the lips found his, strong, urgent, brutally smothering his mouth. He fought and they held him; he was sick with embarrassment, and the laughter rang in his ears.

There were lips everywhere, and hands, and lifted skirts, and darkness, all shadowy and warm and crinkly.

And then the blonde stood over him, one leg planted on either side of his body, her skirt flapping above his face.

“This Vike’s no good!” she shouted thickly. “Where’s a good Ree for me?”

Hoarse laughter answered her, as the cry was taken up; the circle broke, and he heard the shouting of men as they trampled over him. The women giggled and laughed, and the men roared. Van crept along the ground, away from the exhibition that made him sick a moment later.

He lay in his own sickness, the smell making him sicker, and then he crawled away, aware of his nudity, desperately ashamed. He got to his knees and then his feet, and he began running down the twisting path, keeping to the shadow, dodging into the trees whenever he heard voices or saw the gleam of torchlight. He could still not think clearly. His brain was consumed with alcohol and it raced through his veins, clouded his eyes, increased the nightmare illusion of the night. He found his way out of the park, snatched up a Ree overcoat from the sidewalk and draped it around his middle. He ran, the alcohol somehow sharpening his sense of danger, leading him in wide circles around the Rees.

He tried to pick his own apartment building from the similar ones standing beside it, finally dodged into the sub garage. The garage was cool, and the cars were lined up in rows of metallic neatness. He ran through the garage, stopping once when he heard sounds on his right. He glanced into the cool dimness, saw a tangle of naked Ree arms and legs. He ignored them and ran to the lift, falling against the door when it slammed shut behind him. He punched the button for his floor, trembling when the car began its ascent. When the door opened, he rushed into the corridor, ran to his apartment, stabbed his thumb onto the Identilock. He heard the electronic computer whir as his thumb print was identified. The door slid open, and he pushed into the apartment. The door slid shut behind him, and he stood there uncertainly, his drunken brain trying to recognize the place as his own.

A fix, he thought. I need a fix.

He reeled to the home bar, shoved open the lid. He fumbled for a vial, annoyed when he missed. He tried again, lifting the vial. It fell from his fingers, clattering onto the top of the bar. He swore and grasped it again, and he tried to locate a vein, but he could not read the gauge, and his finger trembled on the trigger.

He whirled suddenly, flung the vial at the far wall. It hit a stereopic, shattered the glass and the illusion of depth. He whirled and tried to gain his footing. He stumbled to the thick carpet, and the Ree coat tangled about his legs. He kicked it free, and then got to his knees and lifted his head.

She was standing in the bedroom doorway. She wore a diaphanous gown that clung to the lines of her body. The neon lights flicked on and off through the window, limning her body. The Ree shouts in the street assailed the open window, crowded into the room.

Liz, he thought. Liz.

“Where the hell have you been, you slut?” he shouted. He got to his feet, fell down again. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Van...”

“Shut up!” he screamed. “Shut up!” He found himself crying. The tears streamed down his face, and he tried to get to his feet again, toppled to his knees. “At a goddamn Ree show, you bitch! That’s where you were!”

He crawled toward her on the thick rug, falling onto his face. The alcohol burned inside him, and he looked at her unpainted breasts, at the wide ivory of her hips, the flatness of her stomach. A strong wind caught the gown, flapped it open. His eyes traveled the length of her long legs. “You bitch!” he blurted. He crawled forward, a single purpose in his mind now. She stood fixed in the doorway, her eyes wide, her breasts heaving.

“I’ll show you; I’ll show you! You and all the goddamn Rees. You and all of them!”

He reached her, and his hands grasped her ankles. Her skin was cool to his touch. He pulled, and she toppled to the floor, and the gown brushed away under his hands.

He shouted again. He was sick inside; his body trembled, and he was no better than the rest of them, no better than all the Rees — no better than the drunken pigs mating in alleys, no better than any of them. The tears streamed down his face when he tore the gown from her. He choked on a sob, and his hands fumbled for her breasts. She trembled beneath him, and then tried to roll away from him, but he pinned her tight.

“I’ll show you,” he blubbered. “I’ll show you. I’ll show you.”

Chapter 15

Cold turkey, the ancients had called it. They had misnamed it, Van Brant thought.

He consumed his remaining drugs in the space of three days, and then it began. He woke at 1100 on the fourth morning. He went directly to the bar, lifted the lid, and reached in for a vial, surprised when he found only empties. He remembered that he was all out, then. He stood staring down at the empties, and when Liz came into the room, he glanced up briefly. His eyes avoided hers, the way they had even since the night he’d...

He could still not bring himself to think about it honestly. He’d hated himself, and he’d hated her; and now her subtly exposed body was a constant reminder of what had been. He’d expected her to leave the next morning. She hadn’t, and considering the circumstances, he could not force himself to ask her to go.

“I tried to get some for you,” she said softly.

He looked up, but his eyes still did not meet hers. “And?”

“None; not anywhere. It’s going to be rugged, Van.”

“I know,” he said.

He hadn’t known. He hadn’t known at all what it would be like. Happy time was 1115; he’d watch the hands of the chronometer work their way around the blank white face. At 1105, he remembered there were no more vials in the bar. He shrugged the memory aside, and waited, watching the insidious creep of the chron’s hands.

At 1110, he felt the first pangs of desire. They started in his mind, started as a gentle probing that reminded him it would soon be happy time. They moved rapidly, reaching into his veins, starting an insistent hum in his blood, a hum that softly beckoned the stab of the needle. By 1115, the hum had become a thunderous buzz. He went to the bar unconsciously, completely forgetting there were no drugs in it. He blinked his eyes at the empty vials, slammed the lid shut, and began pacing the floor.

This was no holdoff; this was no voluntary tease, he kept telling himself. He couldn’t put it off until his blood was ready to erupt, and then pop it, enjoying it ten times as much. There was nothing to pop.

He began twisting his hands, and then he began scratching. He scratched his arms, and his back, and his neck, and his face. He’d never been so itchy; he scratched until his skin was red and raw, and then the pain started — a sharp pain that crossed his back and tightened his muscles. And then a dull, throbbing pain in the pit of his stomach.

Liz watched. She sat quietly on the edge of the bed while he paced the room; she didn’t say a word. She watched as his fingers became claws. She watched as he tore at his skin, as his pacing became more frantic. She watched when he doubled over with pain. She watched when he began trembling, when the muscles of his face lost complete control, when his features crumbled into a shivering, jelly-like mass. His breath trembled from his open mouth. He tore at his hair, wet his lips, and strained his neck. He sat, and then stood immediately, and then sat again. He jiggled his feet and twisted his hands, and blinked his eyes. His nose began running, and then his eyes started watering. He opened his mouth wide, trying to suck in air.

When he got sick, she led him to the bathroom. He tried to squirm free of her hands, but he was too weak to protest. He leaned over the bowl, retching drily, and she held him firmly, still silent.

The scream of his blood died, for a while. It came back in an hour, clamoring for the drug. There was no drug, and the cycle began again, ending ultimately over the bowl, where his stomach tried to eject food it did not possess.

The reports of suicides did not cheer him. Liz kept a watchful eye on him, her face taking on an expectant look whenever he wandered close to a window. She could only guess at what was going on inside him, but her face held honest fear and concern.

On the second day of the cold turkey, he left the apartment. He told Liz he couldn’t stand the four walls any longer; he told her he wanted to stretch his legs and breathe some fresh air. He told her he’d shaken the drug.

He told the same thing to himself.

He told it to one corner of his mind, but his body knew he was out to seek drugs illegally.

He tried the worst parts of the city. He offered large sums of money; he would have offered his life. There were no drugs to be had. The heat was on, and the illegal traffic had burrowed underground, far from the probing eyes of the Federal authorities. He walked the streets, sick with the panic of defeat, and sick with the physical disintegration of his body. He walked with his shoulders hunched against the wind, his eyes staring blankly at the cast-iron skies that solemnly forecast the winter. There was a still, funereal feel to the air. The people he passed were silent, Vike and Ree alike. The Vike faces were drawn and haunted, mirrored reflections of his own. And the Rees, like murderers drowned in their victims’ blood, avoided Vike eyes, walked the streets with the guilty look of an ill-behaving conqueror.

He wondered how all this had happened, and his thoughts took his mind off the drug for a while. He kept walking, unseeing almost, and he was surprised to find himself at his office building. He shrugged, took the lift up, pressed his thumb into the lock, and entered.

A light was burning, and he cursed the inefficiency of the office staff until he opened the door to his private office and found Lois Sylvan sitting at his desk.

She had never looked worse. Her face was drawn and white; the overhead lamp cast deep, black pockets under her eyes. Her lips were thin and cracked, and her face was an active field of muscular spasms. There was the haggard look of a witch about her. Her hair was stringy, matted; her fingers were long and thin, and they trembled violently. She looked up when he entered the room, and there was all the loneliness and despair of the Vike world in her vacuous eyes.

“It’s all over,” she said.

“Don’t be silly. Just because...”

“Not only the drugs,” she protested. “Everything. Everything, Van. It’s all over.”

“What do you mean?” Panic had stabbed deep within him. For a moment, it superseded the other panic, the pressing desire for the drug. “What’s happened?”

“This,” she said. “This. Look at it.” Her hands trembled violently when she reached for the white slip of paper on the desk top. She handed it to him, and then pulled her hands back to clutch at her stomach as a new pain racked her body. Van took the paper and stared at it incredulously.

“This is a lie,” he said.

Lois spoke over the pain in her abdomen, her eyes clenched shut.

“No, Van. It’s the goods. It’s straight.”

He looked at the paper again. It told him that Pall Associates now owned a majority of the stock throughout the publishing and entertainment fields, and that editorial requirements would be changed abruptly in the near future.

He nodded his head vaguely. “We should have seen this coming, Lois. We should have...”

“We didn’t,” she said blankly.

“It still doesn’t mean the end. We can still submit material. We can...”

“No,” she said dully. And then a pain knifed her sharply, and she doubled over and screamed, “Oh, God! Oh God, Van, this is awful.” She gasped an then shouted, “Van, Van!”

“Easy,” he told her. “Get a grip.”

“I can’t take it; I can’t take it. It’s too much. It’s death, Van. It’s the worst things I ever imagined, all rolled into one; I can’t take it.”

“We’ll come back,” he said. “We’ll shake this, and then we’ll start submissions again, and...”

“No. I told you, no.” She shook her head, her arms still wrapped around her middle. “Look at the signature, Van. At the bottom of the page. Look at it.”

He looked.

“No!” he said. “No, this can’t...”

“It is, Van! It’s the end, I say. The end of everything. Of you and me and all the Vikes. Not just the drugs, Van. Everything!”

Her voice rose hysterically; he looked at the signature once more, and a hopeless feeling of defeat washed over him.

The notice was signed: Dino Pelazi, President.

It was easy to see now, of course — the same way a cancer is easy to detect once the entire system has been invaded. Dino Pelazi and Pall Associates. A dummy corporation backed by the Rees, quietly eating up the field, cautiously and stealthily taking control of the entertainment and publishing mediums, the strongest Vike weapons.

And the Ree weapon — money.

As simple as that. God knew how they got it, but it still spoke, and it spoke loudly. It had spoken loudly enough to buy a drug legislation lobby, had spoken loudly enough to shove the law through. It had spoken loudly enough to buy shares and more shares, and finally controlling interests, until the Vikes woke up — too late.

Too late, and why? Because of Pelazi’s clever cover plan. The cover plan, a tactic as old as Methuselah. Years and years of cover plans in the history of the world, and the Vikes hadn’t tumbled to one as simple as Pelazi’s had been.

If you want to invade Sicily, your cover plan indicates you’re going to invade Indo-China. You plant letters and documents, and bodies and false communiques; you allow your phones to be tapped, your radio messages to be decoded, your personnel to be loose-lipped. You plant a plot to invade Indo-China: This is your cover plan. You mass a few troops, poised to attack Indo-China, while your real force is poised to attack Sicily. If the enemy fall for your cover plan, he’ll concentrate his defensive forces in Indo-China; he’ll leave Sicily comparatively undefended. You can breeze right in with your troops.

Pelazi had pulled the same stunt. His real invasion was a big one, it thrust to the heart of the Vike world, the important publishing and entertainment fields. He planned his invasion well, gathering his forces — money — and slowly massing them for the attack. At the same time, his cover plan had gone into action. His cover plan was the trial and Statute 431, the Belly thing. He’d steamed up the entire Vike citizenry over the coming trial, tied them up in preparations for the trial, forced them to devote their entire energy toward winning that trial. And the Vikes, concentrating on the trial, missed the importance of the bigger things that were happening all around them. The real invasion had moved upon them like a case of leprosy, eating away their organs while they worried about a common cold.

Van Brant had contributed to the big invasion; he’d sold most of his shares to Pall Associates long ago. Money, the Vike’s own weapon, poured into the hands of the Ree. How many stupid Rees had contributed to Pelazi’s death fund? How many grubby peasants had scraped up their last dollar for the cause of destroying the Vike? How many Ree millionaires had Pelazi duped into contributing?

It made Brant a little ill. He felt almost personally responsible for the defeat, as if — by selling out to Pall — he had contributed vastly to the death blow. He became morose and moody, and he went into the third day of the cold turkey with Liz hovering over him guardedly. He snapped at her, and he even slapped her once; but she stood by, hanging on his moods, putting up with his ranting.

The call came at 0600 on the morning of the third day.

Liz took it, and when she came back, she said, “Walt Alloway, Van. He seems excited.”

“Tell him I’m out.”

“He...”

“I’ve got enough worries without scribes in my hair. Tell him all work has stopped on the Senso, and tell him the agency is closed temporarily. Tell him...”

“He looked frantic, Van.”

“Oh, for godsakes, where is he?” He stood up and walked to the vid. “Hello,” he growled.

“Van, you’ve got to help me. Lois...”

“Look, Walt...”

“Please, Van; she’s ready to jump! Please, Van come over. Please.”

“Who? What?”

“Lois. She’s outside on the balcony. She’s locked the doors, and she’s ready to...”

“What?”

“Van, it’s twelve up from the level below. She’ll...”

“I’ll be right over.” He clicked off, wiped his hand across his running nose. “Come on, Liz.”

They grabbed a pneumotube, and were at Alloway’s place in five minutes. A sizable crowd had already gathered on the level. Van paused on the sidewalk, looked up the twelve stories to Walt’s apartment. He spotted the balcony, and saw the glint of Lois’ red hair in the sunlight. He led Liz into the lobby, and they took the lift up together.

Walt met them at the door. The absence of narcotics had taken its toll on his face and his eyes. He took Van’s hand tightly, and almost pulled him into the apartment. “Van, I don’t know what to do. She’s out there, and I know she’s going to jump. I know it, Van. This thing has hit her hard; she’s been a walking ghost. Van, what...”

“Have you called the police?”

“They were here. They’re getting nets now, but I’m afraid she’ll go before...”

“Why don’t we break down the doors?” Brant asked.

He took a step toward the balcony, and Walt shouted, “No! Good God, no!” He grasped Van’s arm, swung him around. “She’ll jump the moment we touch those doors. Stay away from them.”

“Well, what the hell are we going to do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” He ran his fingers through his hair, shook his head.

“Have you tried talking to her?” Liz asked.

“Yes, no. I mean yes. Yes, I have.”

“And what happened?”

“She didn’t answer. Liz, she’s going to jump; I know that. She’s had enough. You haven’t seen her; you don’t know what it’s like, or how badly she was hooked. This is killing her. She’s just a kid, Liz; she can’t take it any more.”

“Talk to her again,” Liz said.

“What good will it do? I’m afraid she’ll...”

“Talk to her,” Liz repeated.

“All right. All right, I will.”

He walked to the balcony doors, paused just inside them, and then turned to look back at Brant and Liz. He wet his lips, faced the closed doors again, and said, “Lois? Lois, can you hear me?”

They could not see through the duraloid doors. Lois did not answer.

“Lois? Honey, this is Walt. Honey, can you hear me?”

They waited a long moment, and then her voice came, muffled by the thickness of the doors. “Go away, Walt.”

“Lois, Van and Liz are here. Van wants to tell you about a new show for us. A real fine one, this time. A real good one, Lois; you’ll like it. He... he wants us to get started right away on it. Why... why don’t you unlock the doors, Lois? Van would like to talk to you.”

“Leave me alone, Walt. Please. Just leave me alone.”

“Honey, I... this can really be a big thing. Bigger than the Senso. Van says it’s the greatest, honey. Really the greatest. He says... he says he wants you on it, honey. He says...” Walt turned away from the doors and bit his lip. He shook his head, and Van saw the tears spilling over his cheeks. He faced the doors again. “Lois?”

“Walt, please.”

“But honey, I’m serious; this is something that can make both of us, something...”

“He’s right,” Van shouted. He walked quickly to the balcony doors, and Liz followed him. He put his face close to the metal and said, “Lois, this is Van. Come on inside, baby; we’ve got a lot to discuss.”

“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing.”

“Lois, we’ve got something here that’s screaming for your brand of scribing. Baby, this is the biggest...”

“Nothing,” she repeated. “Nothing. All gone.”

Van turned to Alloway. “She sounds like she’s snapped her wig,” he whispered.

“Listen,” Liz said sharply. They listened, and the sound of sirens filled the room, piling up below.

“The police,” Walt said. “They’re back. Thank God. Thank G...”

“What’s that?” Lois shrieked.

“Honey...”

“Why did you call them? Why? Why?” Her voice was high now, strident, almost unintelligible. “Oh God, haven’t I had enough?”

“Lois...”

“Stay away,” she screamed.

They heard a scuffle on the balcony outside.

“She’s climbing the rail,” Liz said, horror in her voice.

“Lois!” Walt shouted.

“Stay away! Stay away!”

Van threw his shoulder against the locked doors. The duraloid held, and he bounced back, bracing himself for another fling.

“No! Don’t come near me!”

He hit the door again, and this time the snap bolt broke. The doors flew wide, and the cold air rushed into the room. She was poised on the railing of the balcony. Her red hair fanned out behind her head, captured by the wind, slapping against her face, her neck. Her breasts were bare, and she wore lace shorts that showed the long line of her leg. Her eyes were wide and blank, filled with fear, deeply sunk in shadowed pockets.

She screamed “No!” and Van lurched across the balcony, reaching for her as she leaped.

His outstretched fingers touched the skin on her ankle, and he thought he had her. But then the feel of her flesh was gone, and there was only cold air in his hands. The scream invaded the air, high, hysterical; it hung there for a moment, and then broke into a thousand brittle fragments that hurtled for the level below.

“Lois!” Alloway shouted. He ran onto the balcony, gripped the railing, his knuckles showing white. He looked over the edge; the scream ended abruptly, seemed to hold on the air for a second, and then was replaced by a deep silence.

He stood looking over the balcony. The silence ended as suddenly as it had begun, broken by the hum of voices from the level below.

Alloway turned slowly, the tears drying on his cheeks. The wind caught at his hair. “I loved her,” he said.

“Walt...”

“I loved her.”

His eyes met Brant’s, and held them tightly. “You killed her, Van,” he said. “You know that.”

“Walt, I was trying to...”

“Not now. That’s not what I mean, Van. That’s not what I mean at all. You killed her when you hired her for the Senso; you killed her when you turned her Vike. You killed her, Van.” He began crying again, and the tears spilled freely down his cheeks. His face twisted grotesquely; his shoulders and chest heaved, and he spoke in anguished sobs. “The biggest thing on the scene, you said...”

The biggest thing on the scene...

“Set the industry solid, you said...”

Set the industry...

“Something new, something tremendous...”

Something new...

“You sucked her in, Van. You sucked her in, and you killed her. You and your damned Senso. You and your goddamned Senso.”

Senso. Senso. Senso.

“And I loved her. Van, Van, I loved her. I loved her.”

He buried his face in his hands, and he sobbed bitterly.

But Van Brant wasn’t listening any more.

Chapter 16

He went to see Dino Pelazi the next day. He still could not think clearly enough to transact any important business, but he was not going there on business. Nor was Van Brant going to beg or plead.

He went simply to tell Pelazi what he was going to do. He went there to spit in his gloating face.

Pelazi wasn’t gloating, though. He was sitting seriously behind his severe desk. His white hair was slightly disarrayed, and he stroked his black spade beard, with forced concentration.

“Mr. Brant,” he said.

“Mr. Pelazi,” Van answered.

“Sit down, won’t you?” Pelazi did not smile. He offered the chair, and Van took it, making himself comfortable.

“Cigarette?” Pelazi asked. He reached for a box on the desk, extended it to Van.

“Thank you.” Brant took a cigarette, hung it on his lips. Pelazi leaned over and lit it. Van blew out a wreath of smoke.

“What can I do for you?” Pelazi asked.

“I came to congratulate you.”

Pelazi’s eyebrows climbed onto his forehead. “Oh? I’m surprised.”

“You needn’t be. I admire clear thinking in business. Even when it’s dirty business. Your thinking was clear, Pelazi, right down the line. You couped us, and you screwed us, and you didn’t bother taking off our pants. You were very shrewd.”

“Thank you.”

“No,” Van said, “thank you.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“You taught us a lesson, Pelazi. You showed us what the Rees could do if they put their minds to it Your cover plan was a stroke of genius.”

“Thank you.”

“Was it very hard to raise the money you needed?”

“At times, yes. I wanted it desperately, though. You mustn’t forget that; a man will do anything when he wants something badly enough.”

“Why? Why’d you want it so desperately? Power, Pelazi? Was that it? Power for the sake of power?”

Pelazi smiled thinly. “No; you’re mistaken.”

“Am I?”

“I’m afraid so. All I wanted was...”

“All right,” Van interrupted, “you’ve got it all now. Right in the palm of your fat Realist fist. But we’re not through, Pelazi. I came to tell you that you’d better enjoy yourself while you can.”

The abrupt change in Brant’s manner surprised Pelazi. He sighed and said, “Couldn’t we possibly...”

“Listen to me, Pelazi, and I’ll tell you something. I’ll tell you something because it doesn’t matter any more. You were shrewd, very shrewd; but we were shrewder. You were laying your plans, but we’d already formed ours. And maybe your cover plan helped you, but it helped us, too — because it took your attention away from the big thing we had. You bought out everything you could get your claws on, everything you knew about. You used fat Realist dollars, and all the Vike suckers grabbed on fast. If you offer a man enough, he’ll sell his own mother.”

“Not all men.”

“All men,” Van corrected. “You offered a pile, and the pile was grabbed. You bought what you saw, and you bought correctly, because your reasoning was sound: Scoop up the entertainment and publishing, and you control the thinking habits. Squash the drugs, and you’ve won the first major victory. What’s next, Pelazi? Advertising?”

“We’ve just about cornered that, Brant. You’re not in the field, so you wouldn’t know. We’ve been working hard.”

“And all for nothing.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because you missed something, Pelazi. I almost missed its significance myself, until just yesterday. It’s the something we started while you were busy buying up everything in sight. You’d have bought this, too, but it wasn’t in sight. It was secret, and quiet, because it’s one of the biggest things to come along in years.”

“So?”

“So this. You’ve hit the Vikes hard, and they’re all lying in their own vomit and wishing they were dead. A lot of them are dead, Pelazi, and a lot of them are cracking up and not caring whether they’re dead, alive, or something in between. That’s bad; it’s bad because defeat is contagious. But so is victory.”

“You’re talking drivel,” Pelazi said. He seemed annoyed. “I...”

“Drivel, maybe. But just listen to this. This thing we’ve got is the biggest thing on the scene. I’m producing it myself, so I don’t need any big company to bother with — any big company which you undoubtedly own. I’m producing myself, with my own money, and I’ll distribute it myself — and when this thing hits the market, you can take your rejuvenated Ree society and stick it right up your nose. Just remember that, Pelazi.”

“I don’t see how...”

“No? Then I’ll spell it. The Vikes are flat on their backs. They think every other Vike in the country is also on his back. And then along comes something that’s more Vike than anything they’ve ever seen before. It’s bigger Vike and better Vike, and they’re all going to sit up and say, ‘By God, there’s life in the old boy yet!’ It’ll be a shot in the arm for them, Pelazi, like morph or herro, a shot that’ll shove them back on the road. And then, brother, beware.”

“And that’s why you came here?”

“I came to tell you your enjoyment is short-lived, and I came to tell you to make the most of it. Remember that, Pelazi, and enjoy yourself — because you’ve got one foot in the grave and the other on a grapeskin.”

Pelazi’s face became a little sad. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

Van smiled. “I can bet you are.”

“I had hoped we could get together. I had hoped...” He shrugged.

“Together? Ree and Vike? Hah!” He looked at Pelazi contemptuously. “You mean you hoped my scribes would turn out the Ree junk you’re dying to put on the market again. Well, they won’t, Pelazi. They won’t because what I’ve got is going to take all the starch out of your little coup. You’re going to be right back where you started. Only this time, we’re going to be more careful. We’re going to watch you this time, Pelazi, and there’ll be no mistakes.”

Pelazi sighed. “Do what you must do,” he said softly.

“I’ll do it, all right. I just wanted you to know, so that you won’t sit up here and gloat all day. I wanted you to worry a little, Pelazi. I wanted you to know that life is short, no matter how sweet. I’ll leave now, but you’ll be hearing from me.”

He turned and headed for the door.

Behind him, Pelazi said, “Good luck, Branoski.”

He gave his plan to Hayden Thorpe.

Hayden surprised him. He’d been a Corradonict for as long as Van Brant could remember, but he’d shaken the habit in a matter of hours. He tried explaining the synthetic nature of the drug to Van, and the fact that a counter-drug, both harmless and legal, was available. Van listened to this enviously, still tortured by the private hell that attacked his mind and body at irregular intervals. He was shaking his habit the hard way, and Hayden had snapped out of it almost instantly. The contrast was a disappointing one.

But Hayden was enthusiastic about the plan. He told Van that the Senso was about ready to can, and as soon as they got the moo for the ballyhoo, they could hit the market. Van started looking for Deborah.

He couldn’t contact her; she was nowhere to be found. He tried her old apartment, and was greeted at the door by a long-faced Ree, who promptly withdrew, offering no information.

Van figured she’d moved in with Rog Moore, and he checked the directories for Moore’s office address. He found it, and went there, only to find the office space occupied by a doctor named Adair.

He brought the bad news back to Hayden, and together they began scouring the city, anxious to find Deborah, because the stone she’d promised would be enough to put the show over and smash the Ree uprising. They had to work fast. They had to get the moo, and pop the show on the public. They had to do it at once, because the feeling of defeat was spreading. They had to blast through the miasma that had settled over the city like a plague of locusts. They had to announce the new Senso in a matter of days, hours if possible.

It took Van three days to find her. The tracking was not easy, especially with the drug taking a reluctant leave of his blood. He was still not rid of it, and he’d have preferred spending the time in bed. But she had to be found, and when he finally located her, she was working hard, her hair trailing over one eye, her face sweated.

She looked very tired, and her pregnancy was an obvious thing now — or perhaps he only noticed it more than he did last time. She was wearing a nurse’s frock, which was in perfect keeping with her surroundings because she was in a clinic.

“Deborah,” he said, “I’ve come for the money.”

She didn’t stop working. They stood in the antiseptic halls, with the biting smell of the hospital around them. She was banking plasma row on row, turning to pick up the mud-colored jars, then stacking them neatly on the white shelves.

“The what, Van?”

“The money; the stone you promised me. Remember? That night at your party? When you told me...”

“Oh. Yes. Yes, I remember now.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. A speaker on the wall broke the silence. “Calling Dr. Unstedt. Dr. Unstedt wanted in Emergency.” Deborah put another jar of plasma on the shelf, and it clinked solidly against the one beneath it.

“Well?” Van asked. “Can I have it?”

Deborah didn’t answer. A nurse hurried by, pushing a long, wheeled table. Her heels clacked on the white marble floors of the corridor.

“I said...”

“I heard you, Van.”

“Well?”

“No.”

Van blinked. “No? What do you mean? You promised me, Deb; I went ahead with plans because I was counting on that moo. Honey, if ever you wanted to help someone, this is...”

“It’s not a question of wanting to, Van. Believe me, I do want to help. I simply haven’t got that much money.”

“How much do you have?”

“Two thousand at the most. And... and we’ll need that, too.”

“But for godsakes,” he pleaded, almost wanting to weep, “what did you do with the money? Where...”

“The clinic,” she said; “it’s Rog’s, you know. We... we’re going to be needed, Van.”

“Deb,” he said. “Deb, Deb.”

“I would help you if I could, believe me. But you can’t imagine what this abrupt change is doing to people. Rog has his hands full already, and there’ll be more. It’s going to take work, Van, hard work. Rehabilitating the addicts, and then rehabilitating the sick minds.”

“What?” He looked at her, dazed. “I’m sorry, Deb; what did you say?”

“We’ve got to find a meeting ground, don’t you see, Van? That’s the hardest job ahead, and that’s where every psych is going to be valuable. A meeting ground, somewhere in the middle.”

“What do you mean? Somewhere in the middle of what?”

“The middle of Vike and Ree. Neither is healthy, Van — and I think both factions realize it.”

“Realize it?” He was suddenly angry. “Sure,” he said, “start talking like a goddamn smug Ree tramp. Build a cozy clinic for your shack mate and then start spouting pretty phrases. Well, you don’t know what the hell you’re chopping about. You think this Ree business is going to last? You think the people are going to turn back to all that junk? We’ve been Vike for a long time now; we’ll never go back to Ree.”

“You’re right,” Deborah said, “but only because the Ree attitude is a sick one, too.” Her eyes burned with a fierce intensity, and she put a hand on his arm. “We’ve got to bring them together. We’ve got to make a healthy whole out of two diseased parts.”

She paused and turned her head away. “It’s going to get worse, Van, much worse; this is only the beginning. And then someone will have to pick up the pieces. Rog is helping, and so am I. But we’ve all got to.” She paused again. “You see, we have no choice. It’s either that... or the end of everything we know.”

Her voice had got very low. She looked up at Van, and her fingers tightened on his arm. “Do you understand, Van?”

He stared at her for a few moments, and then he gently took her hand from his arm.

“Good-bye, Deborah,” he said.

Chapter 17

And so it was the end, the end of everything he knew. There was nothing any more. The Senso lay dormant in its cans, lacking the money needed to push it across, and the Rees effectively and systematically began squashing Vike entertainment.

Brant took to wandering. He’d put the agency up for sale, fairly certain there would be no buyers, but willing to try, anyway. He had a little money, enough to keep him eating, and so he wandered around the city, walking the streets, watching.

Autumn had given way to winter, and brisk winds moved in as quickly as the Ree upsurgence had. The sky had turned grey, and the dead leaves of autumn were crushed beneath the hurrying boots of passers-by. There was a clean feel to the streets, almost as though winter had somehow purged the air. He breathed deeply, feeling its crispness, tasting its ripe-apple tang. The wind left his face raw and his body invigorated. The people, Ree and Vike, huddled in their heavy garments, pulled their heads in against the cold, lifted the collars of their coats, cupped their ears, smacked their hands together.

The first snow came.

It blanketed the city in white. It covered the pneumotubes, gave a fragile, lace-like appearance to the crisscrossing levels of the city. It deadened footfalls, lent a hushed, almost reverent air to everyone and everything. He walked in the snow, listening to it crunch softly underfoot. It spread ahead of him in unblemished whiteness, clean, a blank sheet of paper. He walked, and he thought.

And he watched, and he listened.

He saw the broken pieces Deborah had tried to explain. He saw these, and he saw the people who were painstakingly picking up those pieces, trying to fit them together into a new pattern. Van Brant saw, and he tried to understand.

He saw young kids holding hands, walking through the snow. He saw bright, red cheeks glistening with health. He saw flashing white teeth, and he heard laughter. Real laughter. Laughter that was generated by a snowball fight, laughter that was spontaneous arid not the result of some scribe’s typewriter pounding.

And he saw tears, honest tears, tears that were not spilled for a stereosoap. Personal tears. Real tears.

When he made his decision, it was after a lot of thought. It was not an easy decision to make.

She was sitting before the fireplace when he came home that evening. The tint of winter clung to his cheeks, and his eyes were clear and bright. She did not speak as he fumbled out of his overcoat, shook the vagrant snowflakes to the floor. He hung his coat in the closet and then walked to the fire, rubbing his hands together.

The flames leaped against the stone chimney, and the wood crackled, and sparks danced like fiery demons, mocking the cold air outside the plexoid windows. She watched the motion of his hands, as he held them out to the flames. There was strength in the fingers, and she lifted her eyes to his face and waited.

When he spoke, finally, there was something of the old sureness in his voice again. Her heart quickened, and she held her breath.

“The new Senso,” he said firmly. “It’s still the biggest goddamned thing on the scene.”

He saw her hope fall. She bit her lip and turned her head to the flames, watching the patterns they formed.

“I’m taking it to Pelazi,” he said.

She snapped her head up abruptly, and the question was in her eyes.

“It’s all over, Liz,” he went on. “You know that. All of it. But this thing is big, goddamnit! It can still be used. Not the way we have it, hell no. But the process, Liz, the process. It can be used for something good... for real entertainment.” He paused, and doubt filled his eyes for a moment. “Don’t you think so, Liz? Don’t you think we could show it to Pelazi, sort of strike a middle ground? Don’t you...”

“Yes, Van,” Liz said softly. “I think so.”

Brant nodded. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe we can.”

She reached out and covered his hand with hers, and her flesh was warm and not at all repulsive. “It’s not the end after all, is it, Van?”

He turned to face her, and the question was in her eyes, and on her mouth, and she lifted her face expectantly, waiting.

“No,” he said. “It may be just the beginning.”

Content

Hunt Collins
Tomorrow’s World

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17