Now Wait for Last Year Page 5

  'I will,' she said. And walked through Chris Plout. But she did not reappear on the other side. She had vanished; only Plout remained, still bleating for someone to answer him, still flailing the air in search of companions he could no longer perceive.

  Isolation, Bruce Himmel thought to himself. Each of us cut off from all the others. Dreadful. But – it'll wear off. Won't it?

  As yet he did not know. And for him it had not even started.

  * * *

  'These pains,' UN Secretary General Gino Molinari rasped, lying back on the large, red, hand-wrought couch in the living room of Virgil Ackerman's Wash-35 apartment, 'generally become most difficult for me at night.' He had shut his eyes; his great fleshy face sagged forlornly, the grimy jowls wobbling as he spoke. 'I've been examined; Dr Teagarden is my chief GP. They've made infinite tests, with particular attention directed toward malignancy.'

  Eric thought. The man's speaking by rote; it's not his natural speech pattern. This has become that ingrained in his mind, this preoccupation; he's gone through this ritual a thousand times, with as many physicians. And – he still suffers.

  There's no malignancy,' Molinari added. 'That seems to have been authoritatively verified.' His words constituted a satire of pompous medical diction, Eric realized suddenly. The Mole had immense hostility toward doctors, since they had failed to help him. 'Generally the diagnosis is acute gastritis. Or spasms of the phyloric valve. Or even an hysterical re-enactment of my wife's labor pains, which she experienced three years ago.' He finished, half to himself, 'Shortly before her death.'

  'What about your diet?' Eric asked.

  The Mole opened his eyes wearily. 'My diet. I don't eat, doctor. Nothing at all. The air sustains me; didn't you read that in the homeopapes? I don't need food, like you simple schulps do. I'm different.' His tone was urgently, acutely embittered.

  'And it interferes with your duties?' Eric asked.

  The Mole scrutinized him. 'You think it's psychosomatic, that outmoded pseudo science that tried to make people morally responsible for their ailments?' He spat in anger; his face writhed and now the flesh was no longer hanging and loose – it was stretched taut, as if ballooned out from within. 'So I can escape my responsibilities? Listen, doctor; I still have my responsibilities – and the pain. Can that be called secondary neurotic psychological gain?'

  'No,' Eric admitted. 'But anyhow I'm not qualified to deal with psychosomatic medicine; you'd have to go to—'

  'I've seen them,' the Mole said. All at once he dragged himself to his feet, stood swaying, facing Eric. 'Get Virgil back here; there's no point in your wasting your time interrogating me. And anyhow I don't choose to be interrogated. I don't care for it.' He strode unsteadily toward the door, hitching up his sagging khaki trousers as he went.

  Eric said, 'Secretary, you could have your stomach removed, you realize. At any time. And an artiforg planted in replacement. The operation is simple and almost always successful. Without examining your case records I shouldn't say this, but you may have to have your stomach replaced one of these days. Risk or no risk.' He was certain that Molinari would survive; the man's fear was palpably phobic.

  'No,' Molinari said quietly. 'I don't have to; it's my choice. I can die instead.'

  Eric stared at him.

  'Sure,' Molinari said. 'Even though I'm the UN Secretary General. Hasn't it occurred to you that I want to die, that these pains, this developing physical – or psychosomatic – illness is a way out for me? I don't want to go on. Maybe. Who knows? What difference does it make, to anybody? But the hell with it.' He tore open the hall door. 'Virgil,' he boomed in a surprisingly virile voice. 'For chrissake, let's pour and get this party started.' Over his shoulder he said to Eric, 'Did you know this was a party? I bet the old man told you it was a serious conference for solving Terra's military, political, and economic problems. In one half hour.' He grinned, showing his big, white teeth.

  'Frankly,' Eric said, 'I'm glad to hear it's a party.' The session with Molinari had been as difficult for him as it had been for the Secretary. And yet – he had an intuition that Virgil Ackerman would not let it end there. Virgil wanted something done for the Mole; he desired to see the man's distress eased, and for a good, practical reason.

  The collapse of Gino Molinari would signify an end to Virgil's possession of TF&D. Management of Terra's economic syndromes no doubt held priority for Freneksy's officials; their agenda had probably been drawn up in detail.

  Virgil Ackerman was a shrewd businessman.

  'How much,' Molinari asked suddenly, 'does the old fruit Pay you?'

  'V-very well,' Eric said, taken by surprise.

  Molinari, eyeing him, said, 'He's talked to me about you. Before this get-together. Sold me on you, how good you are. Because of you he's still alive long after he ought to be dead, all that crap.' They both smiled. 'What's your choice in liquor, doctor? I like anything. And I like fried chops and Mexican food and spare ribs and fried prawns dipped in horse-radish and mustard ... I treat my stomach kind.'

  'Bourbon,' Eric said.

  A man entered the room, glanced at Eric. He had a gray, grim expression and Eric realized that this was one of the Mole's Secret Service men.

  'This is Tom Johannson,' the Mole explained to Eric. 'He keeps me alive; he's my Dr Eric Sweetscent. But he does it with his pistol. Show doc your pistol, Tom; show him how you can nam anybody, any time you want, at any distance. Plug Virgil as he comes across the hall, right in the fnigging heart; then doc can paste a new heart in its place. How long does it take, doc? Ten, fifteen minutes?' The Mole laughed loudly. And then he motioned to Johannson. 'Shut the door.'

  His bodyguard did so; the Mole stood facing Eric Sweetscent.

  'Listen, doctor. Here's what I want to ask you. Suppose you began to perform an org-trans operation on me, taking out my old stomach and putting in a new one, and something went wrong. It wouldn't hurt, would it? Because I'd be out. Could you do that?' He watched Eric's face. 'You understand me, don't you? I see you do.' Behind them, at the closed door, the bodyguard stood impassively, keeping everyone else out, preventing them from hearing. This was for Eric alone. In utmost confidence.

  'Why?' Eric said, after a time. Why not simply use Johannson's loger-magnum pistol? If this is what you want...

  'I don't know why, actually,' the Mole said. 'No one particular reason. The death of my wife, perhaps. Call it the responsibility I have to bear....nd which I'm not managing to discharge properly, at least according to many people. I don't agree; I think I'm succeeding. But they don't understand all the factors in the situation.' He admitted, then, 'And I'm tired.'

  'It – could be done,' Eric said truthfully.

  'And you could do it?' The man's eyes blazed, keen and fixed on him. Sizing him up as each second ticked away.

  'Yes, I could do it.' He held, personally, an odd view regarding suicide. Despite his code, the ethical under-structure of medicine, he believed – and it was based on certain very real experiences in his own life – that if a man wanted to die he had the right to die. He did not possess an elaborated rationalization to justify this belief; he had not even tried to construct one. The proposition, to him, seemed self-evident. There was no body of evidence which proved that life in the first place was a boon. Perhaps it was for some persons; obviously it was not for others. For Gino Molinari it was a nightmare. The man was sick, guilt-ridden, saddled with an enormous, really hopeless task: he did not have the confidence of his own people, the Terran population, and he did not enjoy the respect or trust or admiration of the people of Lilistar. And then, above and beyond all that, lay the personal consideration, the events in his own private life, starting with the sudden, unexpected death of his wife and ending up with the pains in his belly. And then, too, Eric realized with acute comprehension, there was probably more. Factors known only to the Mole. Deciding factors which he did not intend to tell.

  'Would you do such a thing?' Molinari asked.

  After a long, l
ong pause Eric said, 'Yes I would. It would be an agreement between the two of us. You'd ask for it and I'd give it to you and it would end there. It would be no one's business but our own.'

  'Yes.' The Mole nodded and on his face relief showed; he seemed now to relax a little, to experience some peace. 'I can see why Virgil recommended you.'

  'I was going to do it to myself, once,' Eric said. 'Not so long ago.'

  The Mole's head jerked, he stared at Eric Sweetscent with a look so keen that it cut through his physical self and into that which lay at the deepest, most silent part of him. 'Really?' the Mole said then.

  'Yes.' He nodded. So I can understand, he thought to himself, can empathize with you even without having to know the exact reasons.

  'But I,' the Mole said, 'want to know the reasons.' It was so close to a telepathic reading of his mind that Eric felt stunned; he found himself unable to look away from the penetrating eyes and he realized, then, that it had been no parapsycho-logical talent on the Mole's part: it had been swifter and stronger than that.

  The Mole extended his hand; reflexively, Eric accepted it. And, once he had done so, he found the grip remaining; the Mole did not release his hand but tightened his grip so that pain flew up Eric's arm. The Mole was trying to see him better, trying, as Phyllis Ackerman had done not so long ago, to discover everything that could be discovered about him. But out of the Mole's mind came no glib, flip theories; the Mole insisted on the truth, and articulated by Eric Sweetscent himself. He had to tell the Mole what it had been; he had no choice.

  * * *

  Actually, in his case it had been a very small matter. Something which if told – and he had never been so foolish as to tell it, even to his professional headbasher – would have proved absurd, would have made him appear, and rightly so, an idiot. Or, even worse, mentally deranged.

  It had been an incident between himself and—

  'Your wife,' the Mole said, staring at him, never taking his eyes from him. And still the steady grip of his hand.

  'Yes.' Eric nodded. 'My Ampex video tapes ... of the great mid-twentieth century comedian Jonathan Winters.'

  The pretext for his first invitation of Kathy Lingrom had been his fabulous collection. She had expressed a desire to see them, to drop by his apt – at his invitation – to witness a few choice shots.

  The Mole said, 'And she read something psychological into your having the tapes. Something "meaningful" about you.'

  'Yes.' Eric nodded somberly.

  After Kathy had sat curled up one night in his living room, as long-legged and smooth as a cat, her bare breasts faintly green from the light coating of polish she had given them (in the latest style), watching the screen fixedly and, of course, laughing – who could fail to? – she had said contemplatively, 'You know, what's great about Winters was his talent for role-playing. And, once in a role, he was submerged; he seemed actually to believe in it.'

  'Is that bad?' Eric had said.

  'No. But it tells me why you gravitate to Winters.' Kathy fondled the damp, cold glass of her drink, her long lashes lowered in thought. 'It's that residual quality in him that could never be submerged in his role. It means you resist life, the role that you play out – being an org-trans surgeon, I suppose. Some childish, unconscious part of you won't enter human society.'

  'Well, is that bad?' He had tried to ask jokingly, wanting – even then – to turn this pseudopsychiatric, ponderous discussion to more convivial areas... areas clearly defined in his mind as he surveyed her pure, bare, pale green breasts flicking with their own luminosity.

  'It's deceitful,' Kathy said.

  Hearing that, then, something in him had groaned, and something in him groaned now. The Mole seemed to hear it, to take note.

  'You're cheating people,' Kathy said. 'Me, for instance.' At that point – mercifully – she changed the topic. For that he felt gratitude. And yet – why did it bother him so?

  Later, when they had married, Kathy primly requested that he keep his tape collection in his study and not out in the shared portion of their conapt. The collection vaguely vexed her, she said. But she did not know – or anyhow did not say – why. And when in the evenings he felt the old urge to play a section or tape, Kathy complained.

  'Why?' the Mole asked.

  He did not know; he had not then and did not now understand it. But it had been an ominous harbinger; he saw her aversion but the significance of it eluded him, and this inability to grasp the meaning of what was taking place in his married life made him deeply uneasy.

  Meanwhile, through Kathy's intercession, he had been hired by Virgil Ackerman. His wife had made it possible for him to take a notable leap in the hierarchy of econ and sose – economic and social – life. And of course he felt gratitude toward her; how could he not? His basic ambition had been fulfilled.

  The means by which it had been accomplished had not struck him as overpoweringly important: many wives helped their husbands up the long steps in their careers. And vice versa. And yet—

  It bothered Kathy. Even though it had been her idea.

  'She got you your job here?' the Mole demanded, scowling. 'And then after that she held it against you? I seem to get the picture, very clear.' He plucked at a front tooth, still scowling, his face dark.

  'One night in bed—' He stopped, feeling the difficulty of going on. It had been too private. And too awfully unpleasant.

  'I want to know,' the Mole said, 'the rest of it.'

  He shrugged. 'Anyhow – she said something about being "tired of the sham we're living." The "sham," of course, being my job.'

  Lying in bed, naked, her soft hair curling about her shoulders – in those days she had worn it longer – Kathy had said, 'You married me to get your job. And you're not striving on your own; a man should make his own way.' Tears filled her eyes, and she flopped over on her face to cry – or appear, anyhow – to cry.

  '"Strive"?' he had said, baffled.

  The Mole interrupted, 'Rise higher. Get a better job. That's what they mean when they say that.'

  'But I like my job,' he answered.

  'So you're content,' Kathy said, in a muffled, bitter voice, 'to appear to be successful. When you really aren't.' And then, sniffling and snuffling, she added, 'And you're terrible in bed.'

  He got up and went into the living room of their conapt and sat alone for a time and then, instinctively, he made his way into his study and placed one of his treasured Johnny Winters tapes into the projector. For a while he sat in misery watching Johnny put on one hat after another and become a different person under each. And then—

  At the doorway Kathy appeared, smooth and naked and slim, her face contorted. 'Have you found it?'

  'Found what?' He shut the tape projector off.

  'The tape,' she stated, 'that I destroyed.'

  He stared at her, unable to take in what he had heard.

  'A few days ago.' Her tone, defiant, shrilled at him. 'I was all alone here in the conapt; I felt blue – you were busy doing some drafk nothing thing for Virgil – and I put on a reel; I put it on exactly right; I followed all the instructions. But it did something wrong. So it got erased.'

  The Mole grunted somberly. 'You were supposed to say "It doesn't matter."'

  He had known that; known it then, knew it now. But in a strangled, thick voice he had said, 'Which tape?'

  'I don't remember.'

  His voice rose; it escaped him. 'Goddam it, which tape?' He ran to the shelf of tapes; grabbed the first box; tore it open; carried it at once to the projector.

  'I knew,' Kathy said, in a harsh, bleak voice as she watched him with withering contempt, 'that your —— tapes meant more to you than I do or ever did.'

  'Tell me which tape!' he pleaded. 'Please?'

  'No, she wouldn't say,' the Mole murmured thoughtfully. That would be the entire point. You'd have to play every one of them before you could find out. A couple days of playing tapes. Clever dame; damn clever.'

  'No,' Kathy sa
id in a low, embittered, almost frail voice. Now her face was peaked with hatred for him. 'I'm glad I did it. You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to ruin all of them.'

  He stared at her. Numbly.

  'You deserve it,' Kathy said, 'for holding back and not giving me all your love. This is where you belong, scrabbling like an animal, a panic-ridden animal. Look at you! Contemptible – trembling and about to burst into tears. Because someone ruined one of your INCREDIBLY important tapes.'

  'But,' he said, 'it's my hobby. My lifetime hobby.'

  'Like a kid pulling its pud,' Kathy said.

  They – can't be replaced. I have the only copies of some of them. The one from the Jack Paar show—'

  'So what? You know something, Eric? Do you know, really know, why you like watching men on tape?'

  The Mole grunted; his heavy, fleshy, middle-aged face flinched as he listened.

  'Because,' Kathy said, 'you're a fairy.'

  'Ouch,' the Mole murmured, and blinked.

  'You're a repressed homosexual. I sincerely doubt if you're aware of it on a conscious level, but it's there. Look at me; look. Here I am; a perfectly attractive woman, available to you any time you want me.'

  The Mole said, aside, wryly, 'And at no cost.'

  'And yet you're in here with these tapes and not in the bedroom screwbling with me. I hope – Eric, I hope to God I ruined one that—' She turned away from the door then. 'Good night. And have fun playing with yourself.' Her voice – actually and unbelievably – had become controlled, even placid.

  From a crouched position he bolted toward her. Reached for her as she retreated smooth and white and naked down the hall, her back to him. He grabbed her, grabbed firm hold, sank his fingers into her soft arm. Spun her around. Blinking, startled, she faced him.

  'I'm going to—' He broke off. I'm going to kill you, he had started to say. But already in the unstirred depths of his mind, slumbering beneath the frenzy of his hysterical antics, a cold and rational fraction of him whispered its ice-God voice: Don't say it. Because if you do, then she's got you. She'll never forget. As long as you live she'll make you suffer. This is a woman that one must not hurt because she knows techniques; she knows how to hurt back. A thousandfold. Yes, this is her wisdom, this knowing how to do this. Above all other things.