12

Still at his desk in his office at Camp B-G, brooding over the behavior of Anne Esterhazy, Dr. Milton Glaub received an emergency call. It was from the master circuit of the UN’s Public School.

“Doctor,” its flat voice declared, “I am sorry to disturb you but we require assistance. There is a male citizen wandering about our premises in an evident state of mental confusion. We would like you to come and remove him.”

“Certain1y,” Dr. Glaub murmured. “I’ll come straight there.”

Soon he was in the air, piloting his ‘copter across the desert from New Israel toward the Public School.

When he arrived, the master circuit met him and escorted him at a brisk pace through the building until they reached a closed-off corridor. “We felt we should keep the children away from him,” the master circuit explained as she caused the wall to roll back, exposing the corridor.

There, with a dazed expression on his face, stood a man familiar to Dr. Glaub. The doctor had an immediate reaction of satisfaction, in spite of himself. So Jack Bohlen’s schizophrenia had caught up with him. Bohlen’s eyes were without focus; obviously he was in a state of catatonic stupor, probably alternating with excitement--he looked exhausted. And with him was another person whom Dr. Glaub recognized. Manfred Steiner sat curled up on the floor, bent forward, likewise in an advanced state of withdrawal.

Your association did not cause either of you to prosper, Dr. Glaub observed to himself.

With the help of the master circuit he got both Bohlen and the Steiner boy into his ‘copter, and presently he was flying back to New Israel and Camp B-G.

Hunched over, his hands clenched, Bohlen said, “Let me tell you what happened.”

“Please do,” Dr. Glaub said, feeling--at last--in control.

Jack Bohlen said in an uneven voice, “I went to the school to pick up my son. I took Manfred.” He twisted in his seat to look at the Steiner boy, who had not come out of his catalepsy; the boy lay rolled up on the floor of the ‘copter, as inert as a carving. “Manfred got away from me. And then--communication between me and the school broke down. All I could hear was--“ He broke off.

“Folie a deux,” Glaub murmured. Madness of two.

Bohlen said, “Instead of the school, I heard him. I heard his words coming from the Teachers.” He was silent, then.

“Manfred has a powerful personality,” Dr. Glaub said. “It is a drain on one’s resources to be around him for long. I think it would be well for you, for your own health, to abandon this project. I think you risk too much.”

“I have to see Arnie tonight,” Bohlen said in a ragged, harsh whisper.

“What about yourself? What’s going to become of you?”

Bohlen said nothing.

“I can treat you,” Dr. Glaub said, “at this stage of your difficulty. Later on--I’m not so sure.”

“In there, in that damn school,” Bohlen said, “I got completely confused; I didn’t know what to do. I kept going on, looking for someone who I could still talk to. Who wasn’t like--him.” He gestured toward the boy.

“It is a massive problem for the schizophrenic to relate to the school,” Glaub said. “The schizophrenic, such as yourself, very often deals with people through their unconscious. The teaching machines, of course, have no shadow personalities; what they are is all on the surface. Since the schizophrenic is accustomed constantly to ignore the surface and look beneath--he draws a blank. He is simply unable to understand them.”

Bohlen said, “I couldn’t understand anything they said; it was all just that--meaningless talk Manfred uses. That private language.”

“You’re fortunate you could come out of it,” Dr. Glaub said.

“I know.”

“So now what will it be for you, Bohlen? Rest and recovery? Or more of this dangerous contact with a child so unstable that--“

“I have no choice,” Jack Bohlen said.

“That’s right. You have no choice; you must withdraw.”

Bohlen said, “But I learned something. I learned how great the stakes are for me personally, in all this. Now I know what it would be like to be cut off from the world, isolated, the way Manfred is. I’d do anything to avoid that. I have no intention of giving up now.” With shaking hands he got a cigarette from his pocket and lit up.

“The prognosis for you is not good,” Dr. Glaub said.

Jack Bohlen nodded.

“There’s been a remission of your difficulty, due no doubt to your being removed from the environment of the school. Shall I be blunt? There’s no telling how long you’ll be able to function; perhaps another ten minutes, another hour-- possibly until tonight, and then you may well find yourself enduring a worse collapse. The nocturnal hours are especially bad, are they not?”

“Yes,” Bohlen said.

“I can do two things for you. I can take Manfred back to Camp B-G and I can represent you at Arnie’s tonight, be there as your official psychiatrist. I do that all the time; it’s my business. Give me a retainer and I’ll drop you off at your home.”

“Maybe after tonight,” Bohlen said. “Maybe you can represent me later on, if this gets worse. But tonight I’m taking Manfred with me to see Arnie Kott.”

Dr. Glaub shrugged. Impervious to suggestion, he realized. A sign of autism. Jack Bohlen could not be persuaded; he was too cut off already to hear and understand. Language for him had become a hollow ritual, signifying nothing.

“My boy David,” Bohlen said all at once. “I have to go back there to the school and pick him up. And my Yee Company ‘copter; it’s there, too.” His eyes had become clearer, now, as if he were emerging from his state.

“Don’t go back there,” Dr. Glaub urged him.

“Take me back.”

“Then don’t go down into the school; stay up on the field. I’ll have them send up your son--you can sit in your ‘copter until he’s up. That would be safe for you, perhaps. I’ll deal with the master circuit for you.” Dr. Glaub felt a rush of sympathy for this man, for his dogged instincts to go on in his own manner.

“Thanks,” Bohlen said. “I’d appreciate that.” He shot a smile at the doctor, and Glaub smiled back.

Arnie Kott said plaintively, “Where’s Jack Bohlen?” It was six o’clock in the evening, and Arnie sat by himself in his living room, drinking a slightly too sweet Old Fashioned which Helio had fixed.

At this moment his tame Bleekman was in the kitchen preparing a dinner entirely of black-market goodies, all from Arnie’s new stock. Reflecting that he now obtained his spread at wholesale prices, Arnie felt good. What an improvement on the old system, where Norbert Steiner made all the profit! Arnie sipped his drink and waited for his guests to arrive. In the corner, music emerged from the speakers, subtle and yet pervasive; it filled the room and lulled Goodmember Kott.

He was still in that trancelike mood when the noise of the telephone startled him awake.

“Arnie, this is Scott.”

“Oh?” Arnie said, not pleased; he preferred to deal through his cunning code system. “Look, I’ve got a vital business meeting tonight here, and unless you’ve got something--“

“This is important, all right,” Scott said. “There’s somebody else hoeing away at our row.”

Puzzled, Arnie said, “What?” And then he understood what Scott Temple meant. “You mean the goodies?”

“Yes,” Scott said. “And he’s all set up. He’s got his field, his incoming rockets, his route--he must have taken over Stein--“

“Don’t talk any further,” Arnie interrupted. “Come on over here right away.”

“Will do.” The phone clicked as Scott rang off.

How do you like that, Arnie said to himself. Just as I’m getting good and started, some bugger horns in. And I mean, I didn’t even want to get into this black-market business in the first place--why didn’t this guy tell me he wanted to take over where Steiner left off? But it’s too late now; I’m in it, and nobody’s going to force me out.

Half an hour later Scott appeared at the door, agitated; he paced about Arnie Kott’s living room, eating hors d’oeuvres and talking away at a great rate. “He’s a real pro, this guy; must have been in the business before sometime--he’s already gone all over Mars, to practically everybody, including isolated houses way out in the goddamn fringes, to those housewives out there who only buy maybe one jar of something; so he’s leaving no stone unturned. There won’t be any room for us, and we’re just barely beginning to get our operation moving. This guy, let’s face it, is running rings around us.”

“I see,” Arnie said, rubbing the bald part of his scalp.

“We’ve got to do something, Arnie.”

“Do you know where his base of operations is?”

“No, but it’s probably in the F.D.R. Mountains; that’s where Norb Steiner had his field. We’ll look there first.” In his memo book, Scott made a note of that.

“Find his field,” Arnie said, “and let me know. And I’ll have a Lewistown police ship out there.”

“Then he’ll know who’s against him.”

“That’s correct. I want him to know it’s Arnie Kott he’s got to contend with and not no ordinary opposition. I’ll have the police ship drop a tactical A-bomb or some other minor demolition type of weapon and put an end to his field. So the bugger will see we’re genuinely sore at him for his effrontery. And that’s what it is, him coming in and competing against me, when I didn’t even want to get into this business! It’s bad enough without him making it harder.”

In his memo book, Scott made notes of all that: him making it even harder, etc.

“You get me the location,” Arnie concluded, “and I’ll see that he’s taken care of. I won’t have the police get him, just his equipment; we don’t want to find ourselves in trouble with the UN. I’m sure this’ll blow over right away. Just one guy, do you think? It’s not for instance a big outfit from Home?”

“The story I get is it’s definitely one guy.”

“Fine,” Arnie said, and sent Scott off. The door shut after him and once more Arnie Kott was alone in his living room, while his tame Bleekman puttered in the kitchen.

“How’s the bouillabaisse coming?” Arnie called in to him.

“Fine, Mister,” Heliogabalus said. “May I inquire who is to come this evening to eat all this?” At the stove he toiled surrounded by several kinds of fish, plus many herbs and spices.

Arnie said, “It’ll be Jack Bohlen, Doreen Anderton and some autistic child Jack’s working with that Dr. Glaub recommended . . . Norb Steiner’s son.”

“Low types all,” Heliogabalus murmured.

Well, same to you, Arnie thought. “Just fix the food right,” he said with irritation; he shut the kitchen door and returned to the living room. You black bastard, you got me into this, he thought to himself; it was you and your prognosticating stone that gave me the idea. And it better have worked out, because I got everything riding on it. And in addition--.

The door chimes sounded over the music from the speakers.

Opening the front door, Arnie found himself facing Doreen; she smiled warmly at him, as she entered the living room on high heels, a fur around her shoulders. “Hi. What smells so good?”

“Some darn fish thing.” Arnie took her wrap; removed, it left her shoulders smooth, tanned and faintly freckled, bare. “No,” he said at once, “this isn’t that kind of evening; this is business. You go in and put on a decent blouse.” He steered her to the bedroom. “Next time.”

As he stood in the bedroom doorway watching her change he thought, What a terrific high-type looking woman I got, here. As she carefully laid her strapless gown out on the bed he thought, I gave her that. He recalled the model at the department store appearing wearing it. But Doreen looked a lot better; she had all that flaming red hair that plunged down the back of her neck like a drizzle of fire.

“Arnie,” she said, turning to face him as she buttoned her blouse up, “you go easy on Jack Bohlen tonight.”

“Aw hell,” he protested, “whadya mean? All I want from good old Jack is results; I mean, he’s had long enough-- time’s run out!”

Doreen repeated, “Go easy, Arnie. Or I’ll never forgive you.,’

Grumbling, he walked away, to the sideboard in the living room, and began fixing her a drink. “What’ll you have? I got a bottle of this ten-year-old Irish whisky; it’s O.K.”

“I’ll have that, then,” Doreen said, emerging from the bedroom. She seated herself on the couch and smoothed her skirt over her crossed knees.

“You look good in anything,” Arnie said.

“Thank you.”

“Listen, what you’re doing with Bohlen has my sanction, of course, as you know. But it’s all on the surface, what you’re doing; right? Deep inside you’re saving yourself for me.”

Quizzically, Doreen said, “What do you refer to by ‘deep inside’?” She eyed him until he laughed. “Watch it,” she said. “Yes, of course I’m yours, Arnie. Everything here in Lewistown is yours, even the bricks and straw. Every time I pour a little water down the kitchen drain I think of you.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re the totem god of wasted water.” She smiled at him. “It’s a little joke, that’s all; I was thinking about your steam bath with all its run-off.”

“Yeah,” Arnie said. “Remember that time you and I went there late at night, and I unlocked it with my key, and we went in, like a couple of bad kids . . . sneaked in, turned on the hot water showers until the whole place was nothing but steam. And then we took off our clothes--we really must have been drinking--and we ran all around naked in the steam, hiding from each other. . . . “ He grinned. “And I caught you, too, right there where that bench is where the masseuse pounds on you to flatten your ass out. And we sure had fun there on that bench.”

“Very primordial,” Doreen said, recalling.

“I felt like I was nineteen again that night,” Arnie said. “I really am young, for an old guy--I mean, I got a lot left to me, if you know what I mean.” He paced about the room. “When is that Bohlen going to get here, for chrissakes?”

The telephone rang.

“Mister,” Heliogabalus called from the kitchen. “I am unable to attend to that; I must ask you to get it.”

To Doreen, Arnie said, “If it’s Bohlen calling to say he can’t make it--“ He made a dour, throat-cutting motion and picked up the receiver.

“Arnie,” a man’s voice came. “Sorry to bother you; this is Dr. Glaub.”

Relieved, Arnie said, “Hi, Doc Glaub.” To Doreen he said, “It’s not Bohlen.”

Dr. Glaub said, “Arnie, I know you’re expecting Jack Bohlen tonight--he’s not there yet, is he?”

“Naw.”

Hesitating, Glaub said, “Arnie, I happen to have spent some time with Jack today, and although--“

“What’s the matter, has he had a schizophrenic seizure?” With acute intuition, Arnie knew it was so; that was the point of the doctor’s call. “O.K.” Arnie said, “he’s under a strain, under the pressure of time; granted. But so are we all. I gotta disappoint you if you want me to excuse him like some kid who’s too sick to go to school. I can’t do that. Bohlen knew what he was getting into. If he doesn’t have any results to show me tonight, I’ll fix him so he never repairs another toaster on Mars the rest of his life.”

Dr. Glaub was silent and then he said, “It’s people like you with your harsh driving demands that create schizophrenics.”

“So what? I’ve got standards; he’s got to meet them; that’s all. Very high standards, I know that.”

“So does he have high standards.”

Arnie said, “Not as high as mine. Well, you got anything else to say, Doc Glaub?”

“No,” Glaub said. “Except that--“ His voice shook. “Nothing else. Thanks for your time.”

“Thanks for calling.” Arnie hung up. “That gutless wonder; he’s too cowardly to say what he was thinking.” Disgustedly, he walked away from the phone. “Afraid to stick up for what he believes in; I got nothing but contempt for him. Why’d he call if he’s got no guts?”

Doreen said, “I’m amazed he called. Sticking his neck out. What did he say about Jack?” Her eyes were darkened by concern; she rose and approached Arnie, putting her hand on his arm to stop his pacing. “Tell me.”

“Aw, he just said he was with Bohlen today for a while; I suppose Bohlen had some sort of fit, his ailment, you know.”

“Is he coming?”

“Christ, I don’t know. Why does everything have to be so complicated? Doctors calling, you pawing at me like a whipped dog or something.” With resentment and aversion he loosened her fingers from his arm and pushed her aside. “And that nutty nigger in the kitchen; Christ! Is he baking some witch-doctor brew in there? He’s been going for hours!”

In a faint but controlled voice Doreen said, “Arnie, listen. If you push Jack too far and injure him, I’ll never go to bed with you again. I promise.”

“Everybody’s protecting him, no wonder he’s sick.”

“He’s a good person.”

“He better be a good technician, too; he better have that kid’s mind spread out like a road map for me to read.”

They faced each other.

Shaking her head, Doreen turned away, picking up her drink, and moved off, her back to Arnie. “O.K. I can’t tell you what to do. You can pick up a dozen women as good in bed as me; what am I to big Arnie Kott?” Her voice was bleak and envenomed.

He followed after her awkwardly. “Hell, Dor, you’re unique, I swear, you’re incredible, like what a swell smooth back you got, that dress you wore here, it showed it.” He stroked her neck. “A knockout, even by Home standards.”

The door chimes sounded.

“That’s him,” Arnie said, moving at once toward the door.

He opened the door, and there stood Jack Bohlen, looking tired. With him was a boy who danced unceasingly about on tiptoe, from one side of Jack to the other, his eyes shining, taking in everything and yet not focusing on any one thing. The boy at once slithered past Arnie and into the living room, where Arnie lost sight of him.

Disconcerted, Arnie said to Jack Bohlen, “Enter.”

“Thanks, Arnie,” Jack said, coming in. Arnie shut the door, and the two of them looked around for Manfred.

“He went in the kitchen,” Doreen said.

Sure enough, when Arnie opened the kitchen door, there stood the boy, raptly observing Heliogabalus. “What’s the matter?” Arnie said to the boy. “You never saw a Bleekman before?”

The boy said nothing.

“What’s that dessert you’re making, Helio?” Arnie said.

“Flan,” Heliogabalus said. “A filipino dish, a custard with a caramel sauce. From Mrs. Rombauer’s cookbook.”

“Manfred,” Arnie said, “this here is Heliogabalus.”

Standing at the kitchen doorway, Doreen and Jack watched, too. The boy seemed deeply affected by the Bleekman, Arnie noticed. As if under a spell, he followed with his eyes every move Helio made. With painstaking care, Helio was pouring the flan into molds which he carried to the freezing compartment of the refrigerator.

Almost shyly, Manfred said, “Hello.”

“Hey,” Arnie said. “He said an actual word.”

Helio said in a cross voice, “I must ask all of you to leave the kitchen. Your presence makes me self-conscious so that I cannot work.” He glared at them until, one by one, they left the kitchen. The door, shut from within, swung closed after them, cutting off the sight of Helio at his job.

“He’s sort of odd,” Arnie apologized. “But he sure can cook.”

Jack said to Doreen, “That’s the first time I’ve heard Manfred do that.” He seemed impressed, and he walked off by himself, ignoring the rest of them, to stand at the window.

Joining him, Arnie said, “What do you want to drink?”

“Bourbon and water.”

“I’ll fix it,” Arnie said. “I can’t bother Helio with trivia like this.” He laughed, but Jack did not.

The three of them sat with their drinks, for a time. Manfred, given some old magazines to read, stretched out on the carpet, once more oblivious to their presence.

“Wait’ll you taste this meal,” Arnie said.

“Smells wonderful,” Doreen said.

“All black market,” Arnie said.

Both Doreen and Jack, together on the couch, nodded.

“This is a big night,” Arnie said.

Again they nodded.

Raising his drink, Arnie said, “Here’s to communication. Without which there wouldn’t be a goddamn nothin’.”

Somberly, Jack said, “I’ll drink to that, Arnie.” However, he had already finished his drink; he gazed at the empty glass, evidently at a loss.

“I’ll get you another,” Arnie said, taking it from him.

At the sideboard, as he fixed a fresh drink for Jack, he saw that Manfred had grown bored with the magazines; once more the boy was on his feet, roaming around the room. Maybe he’d like to cut out and paste, Arnie decided. He gave Jack his fresh drink and then went into the kitchen.

“Helio, get some glue and scissors for the kid, and some paper for him to paste things on.”

Helio had finished with the flan; his work evidently was done, and he had seated himself with a copy of Life. With reluctance he got up and went in search of glue, scissors, and paper.

“Funny kid, isn’t he?” Arnie said to Helio, when the Bleekman returned. “What’s your opinion about him, is it the same as mine?”

“Children are all alike,” Helio said, and went out of the kitchen, leaving Arnie alone.

Arnie followed. “We’ll eat pretty soon,” he announced. “Everybody had some of these Danish blue cheese hors d’oeuvres? Anybody need anything at all?”

The phone rang. Doreen, who was closest, answered it. She handed it to Arnie. “For you. A man.”

It was Dr. Glaub again. “Mr. Kott,” Dr. Glaub said in a thin, unnatural voice, “it is essential to my integrity to protect my patients. Two can play at this bullying game. As you know, your out-of-wedlock child Sam Esterhazy is at Camp B-G, where I am in attendance.”

Arnie groaned.

“If you do not treat Jack Bohlen fairly,” Glaub continued, “if you apply your inhumane, cruel, aggressive, domineering tactics on him, I will retaliate by discharging Sam Esterhazy from Camp B-G on the grounds that he is mentally retarded. Is that comprehended?”

“Oh, Christ, anything you say,” Arnie groaned. “I’ll talk to you about it tomorrow. Go to bed or something. Take a pill. Just get off me.” He slammed down the phone.

The tape on the tape transport had reached its end; the music had ceased a long time ago. Arnie stalked over to his tape library and snatched up a box at random. That doctor, he said to himself. I’ll get him, but not now. No time now. There must be something the matter with him; he must have some wild hair up his bung.

Examining the box he read:

“I love Mozart,” he said to Doreen, Jack Bohlen, and the Steiner boy. “I’ll put this on.” He removed the reel of tape from the box and put it on the transport; he fiddled with the knobs of the amplifier until he could hear the hiss of the tape as it passed through the head. “Bruno Walter conducting,” he told his guests. “A great rarity from the golden age of recordings.”

A hideous racket of screeches and shrieks issued from the speakers. Noises like the convulsions of the dead, Arnie thought in horror. He ran to shut off the tape transport.

Seated on the carpet, snipping pictures from the magazines with his scissors and pasting them into new configurations, Manfred Steiner heard the noise and glanced up. He saw Mr. Kott hurry to the tape machine to shut it off. How blurred Mr. Kott became, Manfred noticed. It was hard to see him when he moved so swiftly; it was as if in some way he had managed to disappear from the room and then reappear in another spot. The boy felt frightened.

The noise, too, frightened him. He looked to the couch where Mr. Bohlen sat, to see if he were upset. But Mr. Bohlen remained where he was with Doreen Anderton, interlinked with her in a fashion that made the boy cringe with concern. How could two people stand being so close? It was, to Manf red, as if their separate identities had flowed together, and the idea that such a muddling could be terrified him. He pretended not to see; he saw past them, at the safe, unblended wall.

The voice of Mr. Kott broke over the boy, harsh and jagged tones that he did not understand. Then Doreen Anderton spoke, and then Jack Bohlen; they were all chattering in a chaos, now, and the boy clapped his hands to his ears. All at once, without warning of any kind, Mr. Kott shot across the room and vanished entirely.

Where had he gone? No matter where he looked the boy could not find him. He began to tremble, wondering what was going to happen. And then he saw, to his bewilderment, that Mr. Kott had reappeared in the room where the food was; he was chattering to the dark figure there.

The dark figure, with rhythmic grace, ebbed from his spot on top of the high stool, flowed step by step across the room and got a glass from the cabinet. Awed by the movement of the man, Manfred looked directly at him, and at that moment the dark man looked back, meeting his gaze.

“You must die,” the dark man said to him in a far-off voice. “Then you will be reborn. Do you see, child? There is nothing for you as you are now, because something went wrong and you cannot see or hear or feel. No one can help you. Do you see, child?”

“Yes,” Manfred said.

The dark figure glided to the sink, put some powder and water into the glass, presented it to Mr. Kott, who drank down the contents, chattering all the while. How beautiful the dark figure was. Why can’t I be like that? Manfred thought. No one else looked like that.

His glimpse, his contact with the shadow-like man, was cut off. Doreen Anderton had passed between them as she ran into the kitchen and began talking in high-pitched tones. Once more Manfred put his hands to his ears, but he could not shut out the noise.

He looked ahead, to escape. He got away from the sound and the harsh, blurred comings and goings.

Ahead of him a mountain path stretched out. The sky overhead was heavy and red, and then he saw dots: hundreds of gigantic specks that grew and came closer. Things rained down from them, men with unnatural thoughts. The men struck the ground and dashed about in circles. They drew lines, and then great things like slugs landed, one after another, without thoughts of any sort, and began digging.

He saw a hole as large as a world; the earth disappeared and became black, empty, and nothing. . . . Into the hole the men jumped one by one, until none of them were left. He was alone, with the silent world-hole.

At the rim of the hole he peeped down. At the bottom, in the nothing, a twisted creature unwound as if released. It snaked up, became wide, contained square space, and grew color.

I am in you, Manfred thought. Once again.

A voice said, “He has been here at AM-WEB longer than anyone else. He was here when the rest of us came. He is extremely old.”

“Does he like it?”

“Who knows? He can’t walk or feed himself. The records were lost in that fire. Possibly he’s two hundred years old. They amputated his limbs and of course most of his internal organs were taken out on entry. Mostly he complains about hay fever.”

No, Manfred thought. I can’t stand it; my nose burns. I can’t breathe. Is this the start of life, what the dark shadowfigure promised? A new beginning where I will be different and someone can help me?

Please help me, he said. I need someone, anyone. I can’t wait here forever; it must be done soon or not at all. If it is not done I will grow and become the world-hole, and the hole will eat up everything.

The hole, beneath AM-WEB, waited to be all those who walked above, or had ever walked above; it waited to be everyone and everything. And only Manfred Steiner held it back.

Setting down his empty glass, Jack Bohlen felt the coming apart of every piece of his body. “We’re out of booze,” he managed to say to the girl beside him.

To him, Doreen said in a rapid whisper, “Jack, you must remember, you’ve got friends. I’m your friend, Dr. Glaub called--he’s your friend.” She looked into his face anxiously. “Will you be O.K.?”

“God sake,” Arnie yelled. “I got to hear how you’ve done, Jack. Can’t you give me anything?” With envy he faced the two of them; Doreen drew away from Jack imperceptibly. “Are you two just going to sit there necking and whispering? I don’t feel good.” He left them, then, going into the kitchen.

Leaning toward Jack until her lips almost touched his, Doreen whispered, “I love you.”

He tried to smile at her. But his face had become stiff; it would not yield. “Thanks,” he said, wanting her to know how much it meant to him. He kissed her on the mouth. Her lips were warm, soft with love; they gave what they had to him, holding nothing back.

Her eyes full of tears, she said, “I feel you sliding away farther and farther into yourself again.”

“No,” he said. “I’m O.K.” But it was not so; he knew it.

“Gubble gubble,” the girl said.

Jack closed his eyes. I can’t get away, he thought. It has closed over me completely.

When he opened his eyes he found that Doreen had gotten up from the couch and was going into the kitchen. Voices, hers and Arnie’s, drifted to him where he sat.

“Gubble gubble gubble.”

“Gubble.”

Turning toward the boy who sat snipping at his magazines on the rug, Jack said to him, “Can you hear me? Can you understand me?”

Manfred glanced up and smiled.

“Talk to me,” Jack said. “Help me.”

There was no response.

Getting to his feet, Jack made his way to the tape recorder; he began inspecting it, his back to the room. Would I be alive now, he asked himself, if I had listened to Dr. Glaub? If I hadn’t come here, had let him represent me? Probably not. Like the earlier attack: it would have happened anyhow. It is a process which must unfold; it must work itself out to its conclusion.

The next he knew he was standing on a black, empty sidewalk. The room, the people around him, were gone; he was alone.

Buildings, gray, upright surfaces on both sides. Was this AM-WEB? He looked about frantically. Lights, here and there; he was in a town, and now he recognized it as Lewistown. He began to walk.

“Wait,” a voice, a woman’s voice, called.

From the entrance of a building a woman in a fur wrap hurried, her high heels striking the pavement and setting up echoes. Jack stopped.

“It didn’t go so bad after all,” she said, catching up with him, out of breath. “Thank God it’s over; you were so tense-- I felt it all evening. Arnie is dreadfully upset by the news about the co-op; they’re so rich and powerful, they make him feel so little.”

Together, they walked in no particular direction, the girl holding on to his arm.

“And he did say,” she said, “that he’s going to keep you on as his repairman; I’m positive he means it. He’s sore, though, Jack. All the way through him. I know; I can tell.”

He tried to remember, but he could not.

“Say something,” Doreen begged.

After a bit he said, “He--would make a bad enemy.”

“I’m afraid that’s so.” She glanced up into his face. “Shall we go to my place? Or do you want to stop somewhere and get a drink?”

“Let’s just walk,” Jack Bohlen said.

“Do you still love me?”

“Of course,” he said.

“Are you afraid of Arnie? He may try to get revenge on you, for--he doesn’t understand about your father; he thinks that on some level you must have--“ She shook her head. “Jack, he will try to get back at you; he does blame you. He’s so goddamn primitive.”

“Yes,” Jack said.

“_Say_ something,” Doreen said. “You’re just like wood, like you’re not alive. Was it so terrible? It wasn’t, was it? You seemed to pull yourself together.”

With effort he said, “I’m--not afraid of what he’ll do.”

“Would you leave your wife for me, Jack? You said you loved me. Maybe we could emigrate back to Earth, or something.”

Together, they wandered on.