Dr. Bloodmoney, or How We Got Along after the Bomb

III

Almost every day Stuart McConchie ate lunch at the coffee shop up the street from Modern TV. Today, as he entered Fred’s Fine Foods, he saw to his irritation that Hoppy Harrington’s cart was parked in the back, and there was Hoppy eating his lunch in a perfectly natural and easygoing manner, as if he were used to coming here. Goddam, Stuart thought. He’s taking over; the phoces are taking over. And I didn’t even see him leave the store.

However, Stuart seated himself in a booth and picked up the menu. He can’t drive me off, he said to himself as he looked to see what the special of the day was, and how much it cost. The end of the month had arrived, and Stuart was nearly broke. He looked ahead constantly to his twice-monthly paycheck; it would be handed out personally by Fergesson at the end of the week.

The shrill sound of the phoce’s voice reached Stuart as he sipped his soup; Hoppy was telling a yarn of some sort, but to whom? To Connie, the waitress? Stuart turned his head and saw that both the waitress and Tony the frycook were standing near Hoppy’s cart, listening, and neither of them showed any revulsion toward the phoce.

Now Hoppy saw and recognized Stuart. “Hi!” he called.

Stuart nodded and turned away, concentrating on his soup.

The phoce was telling them all about an invention of his, some kind of electronic contraption he had either built or intended to build—Stuart could not tell which, and he certainly did not care. It did not matter to him what Hoppy built, what crazy ideas emanated from the little man’s brain. No doubt it’s something sick, Stuart said to himself. Some crank gadget, like a perpetual motion machine… maybe a perpetual motion cart for him to ride on. He laughed at that idea, pleased with it. I have to tell that to Lightheiser, he decided. Hoppy’s perpetual motion—and then he thought, His phocomobile. At that, Stuart laughed aloud.

Hoppy heard him laugh, and evidently thought he was laughing at something which he himself was saying. “Hey, Stuart,” he called, “come on over and join me and I’ll buy you a beer.”

The moron, Stuart thought. Doesn’t he know Fergesson would never let us have a beer on our lunch hour? It’s a rule; if we have a beer we’re supposed to never come back to the store and he’ll mail us our check.

“Listen,” he said to the phoce, turning around in his seat, “when you’ve worked for Fergesson a little longer you’ll know better than to say something stupid like that.”

Flushing, the phoce murmured, “What do you mean?”

The frycook said, “Fergesson don’t allow his employees to drink; it’s against his religion, isn’t it, Stuart?”

“That’s right,” Stuart said. “And you better learn that.”

“I wasn’t aware of that,” the phoce said, “and anyhow I wasn’t going to have a beer myself. But I don’t see what right an employer has to tell his employees what they can’t have on their own time. It’s their lunch hour and they should have ‘a beer if they want it.” His voice was sharp, full of grim indignation. He was no longer kidding.

Stuart said, “He doesn’t want his salesmen coming in smelling like a brewery; I think that’s his right. It’d offend some old lady customer.”

“I can see that for the salesmen like you,” Hoppy said, “but I’m not a salesman; I’m a repairman, and I’d have a beer if I wanted it.”

The frycook looked uneasy. “Now look, Hoppy—” he began.

“You’re too young to have a beer,” Stuart said. Now everyone in the place was listening and watching.

The phoce had flushed a deep red. “I’m of age,” he said in a quiet, taut voice.

“Don’t serve him any beer,” Connie, the waitress, said to the frycook. “He’s just a kid.”

Reaching into his pocket with his extensor, Hoppy brought Out his wallet; he laid it open on the counter. “I’m twentyone,” he said.

Stuart laughed. “Bull.” He must have some phony identification in there, he realized. The nut printed it himself or forged it or something. He has to be exactly like everyone; he’s got an obsession about it.

Examining the identification in the wallet, the frycook said, “Yeah, it says he’s of age. But Hoppy, remember that other time you were in here and I served you a beer; remember—”

“You have to serve me,” the phoce said.

Grunting, the frycook went and got a bottle of Hamm’s beer, which he placed, unopened, before Hoppy.

“An opener,” the phoce said.

The frycook went and got an opener; he tossed it on the counter, and Hoppy pried open the bottle.

Taking a deep breath, the phoce drank the beer.

What’s going on? Stuart wondered, noticing the way that the frycook and Connie—and even a couple of the patrons—were watching Hoppy. Does he pass out or something? Goes berserk, maybe? He felt repelled and at the same time deeply uneasy. I wish I was through with my food, he thought; I wish I was out of here. Whatever it is, I don’t want to be a witness to it. I’m going back to the shop and watch the rocket again, he decided. I’m going to watch Dangerfield’s flight, something vital to America, not this freak; I don’t have time to waste on this.

But he stayed where he was, because something was happening some peculiar thing involving Hoppy Harrington; he could not draw his attention away from it, try as he might.

In the center of his cart the phocomelus had sunk down, as if he were going to sleep. He lay with his head resting on the tiller which steered the cart, and his eyes became almost shut; his eyes had a glazed look.

“Jeez,” the frycook said. “He’s doing it again.” He appealed around to the rest of them, as if asking them to do something, but no one stirred; they all stood or sat where they were.

“I knew he would,” Connie said in a bitter, accusing Voice.

The phoce’s lips trembled and in a mumble he said, “Ask me. Now somebody ask me.”

“Ask you what?” the frycook said angrily. He made a gesture of disgust, turned and walked away, back to his grill.

“Ask me,” Hoppy repeated, in a dull, far-off voice, as if he were speaking in a kind of fit. Watching, Stuart realized that it was a fit, a kind of epilepsy. He yearned to be out of the place and away, but still he could not stir; he still, like the others, had to go on watching.

Connie said to Stuart, “Can’t you push him back to the store? Just start pushing!” She glowered at him, but it wasn’t his fault; Stuart shrank away and gestured to show his helplessness.

Mumbling, the phoce flopped about on his cart, his plastic and metal manual extensors twitching. “Ask me about it,” he was saying. “Come on, before it’s too late; I can tell you now, I can see.”

At his grill the frycook said loudly, “I wish one of you guys would ask him. I wish you’d get it over with; I know somebody’s going to ask him and if you don’t I will—I got a couple of questions.” He threw down his spatula and made his way back to the phoce. “Hoppy,” he said loudly, “you said last time it was all dark. Is that right? No light at all?”

The phoce’s lips twitched. “Some light. Dim light. Yellow, like it’s about burned out.”

Beside Stuart appeared the middle-aged jeweler from across the street. “I was here last time,” he whispered to Stuart. “Want to know what it is he sees? I can tell you; listen, Stu, he sees beyond.”

“Beyond what?” Stuart said, standing up so that he could watch and hear better; everyone had moved closer, now, so as not to miss anything.

“You know,” Mr. Crody said. “Beyond the grave. The after life. You can laugh, Stuart, but it’s true; when he has a beer he goes into this trance, like you see him in now, and he has occult vision or something. You ask Tony or Connie and some of these other people; they were here, too.”

Now Connie was leaning over the slumped, twitching figure in the center of the cart. “Hoppy, what’s the light from? Is it God?” She laughed nervously. “You know, like in the Bible. I mean, is it true?”

Hoppy said mumblingly, “Gray darkness. Like ashes. Then a great flatness. Nothing but fires burning, light is from the burning fires. They burn forever. Nothing alive.”

“And where are you?” Connie asked.

“I’m—floating,” Hoppy said. “Floating near the ground… no, now I’m very high. I’m weightless, I don’t have a body any more so I’m high up, as high as I want to be. I can hang here, if I want; I don’t have to go back down. I like it up here and I can go around the Earth forever. There it is down below me and I can just keep going around and around.”

Going up beside the cart, Mr. Crody the jeweler said, “Uh, Hoppy, isn’t ‘there anybody else?’ Are each of us doomed to isolation?”

Hoppy mumbled, “I—see others, now. I’m drifting back down, I’m landing among the grayness. I’m walking about.”

Walking, Stuart thought. On what? Legs but no body; what an after life. He laughed to himself. What a performance, he thought. What crap. But he, too, came up beside the cart, now, squeezing in to be able to see.

“Is it that you’re born into another life, like they teach in the East?” an elderly lady customer in a cloth coat asked.

“Yes,” Hoppy said, surprisingly. “A new life. I have a different body; I can do all kinds of things.”

“A step up,” Stuart said.

“Yes,” Hoppy mumbled. “A step up. I’m like everybody else; in fact I’m better than anybody else. I can do anything they can do and a lot more. I can go wherever I want, and they can’t. They can’t move.”

“Why can’t they move?” the frycook demanded.

“Just can’t,” Hoppy said. “They can’t go into the air or on roads or ships; they just stay. It’s all different from this. I can see each of them, like they’re dead, like they’re pinned down and dead. Like corpses.”

“Can they talk?” Connie asked.

“Yes,” the phoce said, “they can converse with each other. But—they have to—” He was silent, and then he smiled; his thin, twisted face showed joy. “They can only talk through me.”

I wonder what that means, Stuart thought. It sounds like a megalomaniacal daydream, where he rules the world. Compensation because he’s defective… just what you’d expect a phoce to imagine.

It did not seem so interesting to Stuart, now that he had realized that. He moved away, back toward his booth, where his lunch waited.

The frycook was saying, “Is it a good world, there? Tell me if it’s better than this or worse.”

“Worse,” Hoppy said. And then he said, “Worse for you. It’s what everybody deserves; it’s justice.”

“Better for you, then,” Connie said, in a questioning way.

“Yes,” the phoce said.

“Listen,” Stuart said to the waitress from where he sat, “can’t you see it’s just psychological compensation because he’s defective? It’s how he keeps going, imagining that. I don’t see how you can take it seriously.”

“I don’t take it seriously,” Connie said. “But it’s interesting; I’ve read about mediums, like they’re called. They go into trances and can commune with the next world, like he’s doing. Haven’t you ever heard of that? It’s a scientific fact, I think. Isn’t it, Tony?” She turned to the frycook for support.

“I don’t know,” Tony said moodily, walking slowly back to his grill to pick up his spatula.

The phoce, now, seemed to have fallen deeper into his beer-induced trance; he seemed asleep, in fact, no longer seeing anything or at least no longer conscious of the people around him or attempting to communicate his vision– or whatever it was—to them. The séance was over.

Well, you never know, Stuart said to himself. I wonder what Fergesson would say to this; I wonder if he’d want somebody who’s not only physically crippled but an epileptic or whatever working for him. I wonder if I should or shouldn’t mention this to him when I get back to the store. If he hears he’ll probably fire Hoppy right on the spot; I wouldn’t blame him. So maybe I better not say anything, he decided.

The phoce’s eyes opened. In a weak voice he said, “Stuart.”

“What do you want?” Stuart answered.

“I—” The phoce sounded frail, almost ill, as if the experience had been too much for his weak body. “Listen, I wonder…” He drew himself up, then rolled his cart clowly over to Stuart’s booth. In a low voice he said, “I wonder, could you push me back to the store? Not right now but when you’re through eating. I’d really appreciate it.”

“Why?” Stuart said. “Can’t you do it?”

“I don’t feel good,” the phoce said.

Stuart nodded. “Okay. When I’m finished eating.”

“Thanks,” the phoce said.

Ignoring him stonily, Stuart continued eating. I wish it wasn’t obvious I know him, he thought to himself. I wish he’d wheel off and wait somewhere else. But the phoce had sat down, rubbing his forehead with the left extensor, looking too spent to move away again, even to his place at the other end of the coffee shop.

Later, as Stuart pushed the phoce in his cart back up the sidewalk toward Modern TV, the phoce said in a low voice,

“It’s a big responsibility, to see beyond.”

“Yeah,” Stuart murmured, maintaining ‘his remoteness, doing his duty only, no more; he pushed the cart and that was all. Just because I’m pushing you, he thought, doesn’t mean I have to converse with you.

“The first time it happened,” the phoce went on, but Stuart cut him off.

“I’m not interested.” He added, “I just want to get back and see if they fired off the rocket yet. It’s probably in orbit by now.”

“I guess so,” the phoce said.

At the intersection they waited for the light to change.

“The first time it happened,” the phoce said, “it scared me.” As Stuart pushed him across the street he went on, “I knew right away what it was I was seeing. The smoke and the fires… everything all smudged. Like a mining pit or a place where they process slag. Awful.” He shuddered. “But is this so terrffic the way it is now? Not for me.”

“I like it,” Stuart said shortly.

“Naturally,” the phoce said. “You’re -not a biological sport.”

Stuart grunted.

“You know what my earliest memory from childhood is?” the phoce said in a quiet voice. “Being carried to church in a blanket. Laid out on a pew like a—” His voice broke. “Carried in and out in that blanket, inside it, so no one could see me. That was my mother’s idea. She couldn’t stand my father carrying me on his back, where people could see.”

Stuart grunted.

“This is a terrible world,” the phoce said. “Once you Negroes had to suffer; if you lived in the South you’d be suffering now. You forget all about that because they let you forget, but me-they don’t let me forget. Anyhow, I don’t want to forget, about myself I mean. In the next world it all will be different. You’ll find out because you’ll be there, too.”

“No,” Stuart said. “When I die I’m dead; I don’t have a soul.”

“You, too,” the phoce said, and he seemed to be gloating; his voice had a malicious, cruel tinge of relish. “I know.”

“How do you know?”

“Because,” the phoce said, “one time I saw you.”

Frightened in spite of himself, Stuart said, “Aw—”

“One time,” the phoce insisted, more firmly now. “It was you; no doubt about it. Want to know what you were doing?”

“Naw.”

“You were eating a dead rat raw.”

Stuart said nothing, but he pushed the cart faster and faster, down the sidewalk as fast as he could go, back to the store.

When they got back to the store they found the crowd of people still in front of the TV set. And the rocket had been fired off; it had just left the ground, and it was not known yet if the stages had performed properly.

Hoppy wheeled himself back downstairs to the repair department and Stuart remained upstairs before the set. But the phoce’s words had upset him so much that he could not concentrate on the TV screen; he wandered off, and then, seeing Fergesson in the upstairs office, walked that way.

At the office desk, Fergesson sat going over a pile of contracts and charge tags. Stuart approached him “Listen. That goddam Hoppy—”

Fergesson glanced up from his tags.

“Forget it,” Stuart said, feeling discouraged.

“I watched him work,” Fergesson said. “I went downstairs and watched him when he didn’t know I was. I agree there’s something unsavory about it. But he’s competent; I looked at what he’d done, and it was done right, and that’s all that counts.” He scowled at Stuart.

“I said forget it,” Stuart said.

“Did they fire the rocket off?”

“Just now.”

“We haven’t moved a single item today, because of that circus,” Fergesson said.

“Circus!” He seated himself in the chair opposite Fergesson, in such a manner that he could watch the floor below them. “It’s history!”

“It’s a way of you guys standing around doing nothing.” Once more Fergesson sorted through the tags.

“Listen, I’ll tell you what Hoppy did.” Stuart leaned toward him. “Up at the café, at Fred’s Fine Foods.”

Fergesson eyed him, pausing in his work.

“He had a fit,” Stuart said. “He went nuts.”

“No kidding.” Fergesson looked displeased.

“He passed Out because-he had a beer. And he saw beyond the grave. He saw me eating a dead rat. And it was raw. So he said.”

Fergesson laughed.

“It’s not funny.”

“Sure it is. He’s razzing you back for all the razzing you dish out and you’re so dumb you get taken in.”

“He really saw it,” Stuart said stubbornly.

“Did he see me?”

“He didn’t say. He does that up there all the time; they give him beers and he goes into his trance and they ask questions. About what it’s like. I just happened to be there, eating lunch. I didn’t even see him leave the store; I didn’t know he would be there.”

For a moment Fergesson sat frowning and pondering, and then he reached out arid pressed the button of the intercom which connected the office with the repair department. “Hoppy, wheel up here to the office; I want to talk to you.”

“It wasn’t my intention to get him into trouble,” Stuart said.

“Sure it was,” Fergesson said. “But I still ought to know; I’ve got a right to know what my employees are doing when they’re in a public place acting in a fashion that might throw discredit on the store.”

They waited, and after a time they heard the labored sound of the cart rolling up the stairs to the office.

As soon as he appeared, Hoppy said, “What I do on my lunch hour is my own business, Mr. Fergesson. That’s how I feel.”

“You’re wrong,” Fergesson said. “It’s my business, too. Did you see me beyond the grave, like you did Stuart? What was I doing? I want to know, and you better give me a good answer or you’re through here, the same day you were hired.”

The phoce, in a low, steady voice, said, “I didn’t see you, Mr. Fergesson, because your soul perished and won’t be reborn.”

For a while Fergesson studied the phoce. “Why is that?” he asked finally.

“It’s your fate,” Hoppy said.

“I haven’t done anything criminal or immoral.”

The phoce said, “It’s the cosmic process, Mr. Fergesson. Don’t blame me.” He became silent, then.

Turning to Stuart, Fergesson said, “Christ. Well, ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer.” Returning to the phoce he said, “Did you see anybody else I know, like my wife? No, you never met my wife. What about Lightheiser? What’s going to become of him?”

“I didn’t see him,” the phoce said.

Fergesson said, “Hqw did you fix that changer? How did you really do that? It looked like-you healed it. It looked like instead of replacing that broken spring you made the spring whole again. How did you do that? Is that one of those extra-sensory powers or whatever they are?”

“I repaired it,” the phoce said in a stony voice.

To Stuart, Fergesson said, “He won’t say. But I saw him. He was concentrating on it in some peculiar way. Maybe you were right, McConchie; maybe it was a mistake to hire him. Still, it’s the results that count. Listen, Hoppy, I don’t want you messing around with trances out in public anywhere along this street now that you’re working for me; that was okay before, but not now. Have your trances in the privacy of your own home, is that clear?” He once more picked up his stack of tags. “That’s all. Both you guys, go down and do some work instead of standing around.”

The phoce at once spun his cart around and wheeled off, toward the stairs. Stuart, his hands in his pockets, slowly followed.

When he got downstairs and back to the TV set and the people standing around ft he heard the announcer say excitedly that the first three stages of the rocket appeared to have fired successfully.

That’s good news, Stuart thought. A bright chapter in the history of the human race. He felt a little better, now, and he parked himself by the counter, where he could obtain a good view of the screen.

Why would I eat a dead rat? he asked himself. It must be a terrible world, the next reincarnation, to live like that. Not even to cook it but just to snatch it up and gobble it down. Maybe, he thought, even fur and all; fur and tail, everything. He shuddered.

How can I watch history being made? he wondered angrily. When I have to think about things like dead rats—I want to fully meditate on this great spectacle unfolding before my very eyes, and instead—I have to have garbage like that put into my mind by that sadistic, that radiationdrug freak that Fergesson had to go and hire. Sheoot!

He thought of floppy, then, no longer bound to his cart, no longer an armless, legless cripple, but somehow floating. Somehow master of them all, of—as floppy had said—the world. And that thought was even worse than the one about the rat.

I’ll bet there’s plenty he saw, Stuart said to himself, that he isn’t going to say, that he’s deliberately keeping back. He just tells us enough to make us squirm and then he shuts up. If he can go into a trance and see the next reincarnation then he can see everything because what else is there? But I don’t believe in that Eastern stuff anyhow, he said to himself. I mean, that isn’t Christian.

Buthe believed what Hoppy had said; he believed because he had seen with his own eyes. There really was a trance. That much was true.

Hoppy had seen something. And it was a dreadful something; there was no doubt of that.

What else does he see? Stuart wondered. I wish I could make the little bastard say. What else has that warped, wicked mind perceived about me and about the rest of us, all of us?

I wish, he thought, I could look, too. Because it seemed to Stuart very important, and he ceased looking at the TV screen. He forgot about Walter and Lydia Dangerfield and history in the making; he thought only about Hoppy and the incident at the café. He wished he could stop thinking about it but he could not.

He thought on and on.