Drug of Choice

1. ANGEL IN COMA

THE COP, POSITIONED AT the intersection of the Santa Ana Freeway and U.S. 85, saw it all. At three in the afternoon an Angel went past him, hunched over his bike, doing a hundred and ten. The cop later remembered that the Angel had a maniacal grin on his face as he raced forward, weaving among the passenger cars.

The policeman gave chase, light flashing and siren wailing, but traffic was heavy and the Angel managed to keep his distance. He left the freeway in the foothills, and headed north into the mountains, still going more than a hundred miles an hour. The cop followed, but the bike was taking chances, and managed to pull further ahead.

After twenty minutes, the police car came around a bend and the cop saw the bike at the side of the road, lying on its side. The motor was still on, spinning the rear wheel.

The Angel lay sprawled on the ground a short distance away. He had apparently been moving slowly at the time of the accident, because he was unmarked—no cuts, no bruises, no scrapes. He was, however, comatose, and could not be roused. The policeman checked the pulse, which was strong and regular. He tried for several minutes to awaken the Angel, and then returned to his car to call an ambulance.

Roger Clark, resident in internal medicine, went on duty at the Los Angeles Memorial Hospital at six. When he arrived on the floor, he went to see Baker, the day resident. Baker was in the dressing room, changing from his whites to street clothes. He looked tired.

“How’re things?” Clark said, stripping off his sportcoat and putting on a white jacket.

“Okay. Not much excitement, except for Mrs. Leaver. She still pulls out her intravenous lines when she thinks nobody’s looking.”

Clark nodded, stepping to the mirror and straightening his tie.

“And then Henry,” Baker said. “He had the DT’s this morning, and sat in the corner arguing with the little green men.”

“How is he now?”

“We gave him some librium, but watch him. One of the nurses said he felt her up last night.”

“Who’s that?”

“Alice.”

“Alice? He must really be hallucinating if he felt her up.”

“Well, just don’t mention it to Alice. She’s very sensitive.”

Baker finished dressing, lit a cigarette, and rapidly went through the status of the other patients. Nothing much had changed since Clark had gone off duty twenty-four hours before.

“Oh,” Baker said. “Almost forgot a new admission. One of those Hell’s Angels. The cops brought him in after he had a motorcycle accident. He was comatose and he hasn’t come out yet.”

“You ask for a neurological consult?”

“Yeah, but they probably won’t get around to it until morning.”

“What’s his status now?”

“We did the usual stuff. Skull films negative, CSF normal, chest films okay, EEG vaguely abnormal, but nothing specific. All his reflexes are there.”

“Cardiorespiratory depression?”

“Nope. He’s just fine. To look at him, you’d think he was asleep.”

“You treating?”

“No, we’re waiting for the consult. Let the neuro boys play around with him for a while.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“No. That’s it.” Baker smiled. “See you tomorrow.”

When he was alone, Clark made a quick round of the wards, checking on the patients. Everyone seemed in pretty good shape. When he came to the comatose Angel, he paused.

The patient was young, in his early twenties. Nobody had washed him since admission; his hair was greasy, his face was unshaven and streaked with grit, and his fingernails were rimmed with black. He lay quietly in bed, not moving, breathing slowly and easily. Clark checked him over, listening to the heart, tapping out the reflexes. He could find nothing wrong. They had put an intravenous line into him, and had catheterized him in case of urinary retention. The catheter tube led to a bottle on the floor. He looked at it.

The urine was bright blue.

Frowning, he held the bottle up to the light and looked closely. It was an odd, vivid blue, almost fluorescent.

What turned urine blue?

He went back to the desk, hoping to catch Baker and ask about the urine, but Baker was gone. Sandra, the night nurse, was there.

“Were you on duty when they brought that Angel in?”

“Arthur Lewis? Yes.”

“What happened?”

Sandra shrugged. “The police brought him into the emergency ward. They figured he’d had an accident, so they took him up to X-ray and checked him over. No broken bones, nothing. All the enzymes and electrolytes came back normal. The EW couldn’t figure it out, so they shipped him up here. It’s all very mysterious. He was going a hundred before the accident, but the police think he slowed way down before it happened. The policeman who found him said it was just as if he had suddenly fallen asleep.”

“Ummm,” Clark said. He bit his lip. “What about his urine?”

“What about it?”

“Has it always been blue?”

Sandra frowned and left the desk. She went into the ward and looked at the bottle, then returned. “I’ve never seen anything like that,” she said.

“Neither have I.”

“What turns urine blue?”

“I was just wondering the same thing,” Clark said. “Why don’t you call down to neurology and say the guy is still in a coma, but urinating blue. Maybe that’ll bring them up.”

Ten minutes later, Harley Spence, Chief of Neurology, appeared on the seventh floor, panting slightly. He was a white-haired man in his middle fifties, very proper in a three-piece suit.

His first words to Clark were: “Urinating blue?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Apparently it just started, within the last few minutes.”

“Fascinating,” Spence said. “Perhaps a new kind of porphyria. Or some idiosyncratic drug reaction. Whatever it is, it’s definitely reportable.”

Clark nodded. In his mind, he saw the journal article: “H.A. Spence: Unusual Urinary Pigment in a Comatose Man. Report of a Case.”

They walked to the patient’s bed. Clark ran through the story while Spence began his examination. Arthur Lewis, twenty-four, unemployed, first admission through the EW in a coma after a motorcycle accident…

“Motorcycle accident?” Spence said.

“Apparently.”

“He’s unmarked. Not a scratch on him. Would you say that’s likely?”

“No sir, but that’s the police story.”

“Ummm.”

Muttering to himself, Spence conducted his neurological examination. He worked briskly at first, and then more slowly. Finally he scratched his head.

“Remarkable,” he said. “Quite remarkable. And this urine—bright blue.”

Spence stared at the bottle, hesitated, then turned to Clark. “What makes urine blue?”

Clark shrugged.

Spence shook his head, put the bottle down. He stepped back from the patient and looked at him.

“Jesus Christ, blue piss,” he said. “What a patient.”

And he walked off.

The metabolic boys came around an hour later; they collected several samples for analysis, amid a lot of vague talk about tubular secretory rates and refractile indices; Clark listened to them until he was sure they had no idea what was going on. Then, as he was leaving, one of them said, “Listen, Rog, what do you make of this?”

“I don’t make anything of it,” Clark said.

“Do you think it’s a drug thing? You’re the local expert.”

Clark smiled. “Hardly.” He had done two years of drug testing at Bethesda, but it had been boring work, measuring excretion and metabolism of experimental drugs in animals and, occasionally, in human subjects. He had only done it because it got him out of the army.

“Well, could it be a bizarre drug reaction?”

Clark shrugged. “It could. Of course it could. Even a common drug like aspirin can produce strange reactions in certain people.”

Someone else said, “What about an entirely new drug?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. But these Angels will take anything in a capsule. Remember the guy we got who had swallowed a hundred birth control pills?”

“I don’t think that birth control pills would turn—”

“No, no, of course not. But what if this is some entirely new drug, some new thing like STP or THC or ASD?”

“Possible,” Clark said. “Anything’s possible.” On that note, the metabolic boys went back to the labs, clutching their urine samples, and Clark went back to work.

Word of the Angel quickly spread through the hospital. A constant stream of doctors, residents, interns, students, nurses, and orderlies appeared on the floor to look at Arthur Lewis and his urine bottle. During all this time, the patient continued to sleep peacefully. Repeated attempts to rouse him by calling his name, shaking him, or pinching him were unsuccessful.

At midnight, everything on the floor seemed quiet, and Clark went to bed. He stretched out on the cot in the resident’s room, fully dressed, and fell asleep almost immediately.

At five in the morning, he got a call from Sandra. She needed him on the seventh floor; she couldn’t say more. She sounded frightened, so he went right up.

When he arrived, he found Sandra talking to an immense, bearded man in black leather. Though all the lights on the floor had been turned off except the nightlights, the man wore sunglasses. He had a huge naked angel painted on the back of his leather jacket, and on his hand was a tattoo of a heart pierced by an arrow. Underneath, in gold lettering, it said “Twat.”

Clark walked up to him. “I’m Dr. Clark. Can I help you?”

Sandra gave a sigh of relief and sat down. The Angel turned to Clark, looked him up and down. He was a head taller than Clark.

“Yeah, man. You can help me.”

“How?”

“You can let me see Artie-baby.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“Come on, not possible. What is this not possible shit? You sound like a doctor.”

“I am a doctor.”

“Then you can let me see Artie-baby. All the time, this one keeps saying she can’t let me see him because she’s not a doctor. So okay, I buy it, right? It’s a slide, but I buy it. Now you start in. What is this?”

“Look,” Clark said, “it’s five in the morning. Visiting hours don’t begin until—”

“Visiting hours are for creeps, man.”

“I’m sorry. We have certain rules here.”

“Yeah, but you know what happens if I come visiting hours? I see all the sickies, and it makes me depressed, you know? It’s a down, a real bummer. But now it’s dark.”

“That’s true.”

“Yeah, so okay. Right?”

“I’m sorry. Your friend is in a coma now. You can’t see him.”

“Little Jesus? In a coma? Naw: he wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

Clark said, “Little Jesus?”

“That’s his name, man. He had the crucifixion thing, you know. Every trip, he wants to get nailed. His bag: too much money, he had an unhappy childhood.”

Not knowing what else to say, Clark said, “You’d better go now. Come back in the morning.”

“I’ll be flying by then, man. Soon as I leave, I’m flying.”

Clark paused. “Does your friend also fly?”

“Sure, man. All the time. He doesn’t like his momma, see, so he does a lot of flying. He saw a shrink, too, but that wasn’t as good as a long flight.”

“What was he flying?”

“You name it Dope, Gold, Mishra, glue, acid when he was up to it, B’s all the time, goofies…”

“Did he ever try anything really unusual?”

The Angel frowned. “You got a line on something?”

“No,” Clark said. “Just wondered.”

“Naw, he was pretty straight. Never shot stuff, even. He’s the oral type, you know.” The Angel paused. “Now how about it. Do I see him, or what?”

Clark shook his head. “He’s in a coma.”

“You keep talking this coma crap.”

There was a moment of silence, and the Angel reached into his pocket Clark heard a metallic click as the switchblade snapped open. The knife glinted in the light.

“I don’t want to call the police,” Clark said.

“I don’t want to carve your guts out. Now lead the way. I just wanna see him, and then I’ll leave. Right?”

Clark felt the tip against his stomach. He nodded.

They went into the ward. The Angel stood at the foot of the bed and watched Arthur Lewis for several minutes. Then he reached into his pocket fumbled, and frowned. He whispered, “Shit. I forgot it.”

“Forgot what?”

“Nothing. Shit.”

They went back outside.

“Were you bringing him something?” Clark asked.

“No, man. Forget it, huh?”

The Angel stepped to the elevator. Clark watched him as he got in.

“One last thing,” the Angel said. “Cool it with the security guards, or we’ll have blood in the lobby.”

Clark said cheerfully, “You can see him tomorrow, if you like. Visiting hours from two to three-thirty.”

“Man, he won’t be here that long.”

“His coma is quite deep.”

“Man, don’t you understand? He isn’t in no coma.”

The doors closed, and the elevator descended.

“I’ll be damned,” Clark said, to no one in particular. He went back to bed.

Visit rounds began at ten. The visit today was Dr. Jackson, a senior staff member of the hospital. Clark disliked Jackson, and always had. The feeling was mutual.

Jackson was a tall man with short black hair and a sardonic manner. He made little cracks as he accompanied Clark and the interns around from patient to patient. Late in the morning, they came to Arthur Lewis. Clark presented the case, summarizing the now-familiar story of the motorcycle accident, and the police, the admission through the emergency ward…

Jackson interrupted him before he finished. “That man isn’t comatose. He’s asleep.”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“You mean to tell me,” Jackson said, “that that son-of-a-bitch lying there is in a coma?”

“Yes, sir. The chief of neurology, Dr. Spence, thought so too. He saw the patient—”

“Spence is an old fart. Step aside.” He pushed past the interns and stepped to the head of the bed. He peered closely at Lewis, then turned to Clark.

“Watch closely, doctor. This is how you wake a sleeping I patient.”

Clark suppressed a smile, and managed a solemn nod.

Jackson bent over Arthur Lewis.

“Mr. Lewis, Mr. Lewis.”

The patient did not stir.

“Wake up, Mr. Lewis.”

No reaction.

Jackson shook the patient’s head gently, then with increasing force. There was no response.

“Mr. Lew-is. Time to get up…”

He continued this for several moments, and then, suddenly, slapped Arthur Lewis soundly across the face.

Clark stepped forward. “Sir, I don’t think—”

At that moment, Arthur Lewis blinked his eyes, opened them, and smiled.

Jackson stepped back from the bed with a grin of triumph. “Exactly, Dr. Clark. You don’t think. This man is simply a heavy sleeper, difficult to rouse. My youngest son is the same way.”

He turned to the patient. “How do you feel?”

“Great,” Arthur Lewis said.

“Have a good sleep?”

“Yeah, great.” He sat up. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the LA Memorial Hospital, where the resident staff believes that there is something wrong with you.”

“Me? Wrong with me? I feel great.”

“I’m sure you do,” Jackson said, with a quick glance at Clark. “Would you mind walking around for us?”

“Sure, man.” The Angel started to get up, then stopped. He felt under the sheets. “Hey, what’s going on here? Somebody’s been fooling with my—”

At that moment, for the first time, Clark remembered the blue urine. He moved around to the side of the bed and picked up the bottle. “By the way, Dr. Jackson,” he said, “there is one unsolved question here. This man’s urine. It’s blue.”

Clark held up the bottle.

“It is?” Jackson said, frowning.

Clark looked at the bottle. The urine was yellow.

“Well,” he said lamely, “it was.”

“Isn’t that interesting,” Jackson said, with a pitying smile.

“Hey, listen,” the Angel said. “Get this damned tube outa me. It feels funny. What kinda pervert did a thing like that, anyhow?”

Jackson rested a reassuring hand on the patient’s shoulder. “We’ll take care of it right away. Just lie back for a minute. As long as you’re here, you might as well have lunch with the other patients.”

The rounds group moved off to the next case. The interns were muttering among themselves. Clark stared at the floor.

“I swear to you, sir. Last night his urine was bright blue. I saw it; Dr. Spence saw it; the metabolic boys saw—”

“At this moment,” said Dr. Jackson, “I am perfectly willing to believe that you saw polka-dot urine. In this hospital, anything is possible.”

The patient, Arthur Lewis, was discharged at 1:00 P.M. Before he left, Clark talked with him. The patient remembered nothing about a motorcycle accident, or the police. He claimed he had been sitting in his room, smoking a cigarette, when he fell asleep. He awoke in the hospital; he remembered nothing in between. When Clark asked if he had ever urinated blue before, the Angel gave him a funny look, laughed, and walked away.

There were jokes about Clark at lunch that day, and for several weeks afterward. But eventually it blew over, and was forgotten. For Clark, there was only one really disturbing aspect to the whole situation.

The day Arthur Lewis was discharged, Clark had stopped at the front desk on his way home, and talked to the lobby staff.

“I hope there wasn’t any trouble about that Angel in here last night,” he said.

“Oh, he was discharged this morning,” a receptionist said.

“No, I mean his friend. A huge guy. Came up to the seventh floor at five A.M. with a switchblade.”

“Friend?”

“Yes. Another Angel.”

“At five in the morning?” the receptionist said.

“Yes.”

“I was on duty all night. There was no Angel. I do remember an awfully big man—”

“That’s him. Very big man.”

“—but he was wearing a sportcoat and turtleneck. And he had a little briefcase. Very pleasant-looking man.”

Clark frowned. “You’re sure?”

The receptionist smiled in a friendly way. “Quite sure, Dr. Clark.”

“Well, that’s very peculiar.”

“Yes,” she said, with a slow nod. “It is.”

2. BY LOVE DEPRESSED

HER NAME WAS SHARON Wilder, and she was quick to point out it was her real name: “Everything about me,” she would say, licking her lips, “is real.” Certainly there were enough bikini photographs of her on magazine covers around the world to verify her claim. And her agent, an ex-Marine named Tony Lafora, was often heard to say, “Sharon is a very real person. A very real person.”

She had made just one film, a sexy robbery story set on the Riviera called “Fast Buck.” Her role had made her famous overnight. Sharon Wilder was twenty-one, five feet six, black-haired, black-eyed, full-lipped, lush—and real.

One cynical reporter wrote of her “rising young talents,” but mostly, the press was cordial, and the studios, directors, and photographers were nothing short of ecstatic. In the months after her film opened, press coverage of Sharon Wilder was staggering. She appeared twice on the cover of Life, once on Look, once on Newsweek, three times on Cosmopolitan. An article about her and the Hollywood image-making process appeared in Harper’s. She modeled Pucci for Vogue.

The week she appeared on the cover of Time, she was wheeled into the emergency ward of the LA Memorial Hospital. It was nine in the evening, and she was in a coma. The medical resident on duty was Roger Clark.

Clark could not have been more astonished. At the time, he was sipping coffee and discussing a new case of chicken-pox with an intern. A nurse had come up to him and said, “Dr. Clark, you’d better hurry.”

“What is it?”

“The reporters.”

“What reporters?”

“They’re all out in the lobby. They want to know about Sharon Wilder.”

“Sharon Wilder? I don’t know anything about her.”

A moment later, sirens howling, the ambulance pulled up by the EW and the orderlies wheeled her in. Clark took one look and told the intern to get started on her, to keep the airway clear and check for shock; it was probably an overdose of something. He remained with her long enough to see there was no immediate danger, and then went out to see the reporters. There were a dozen or so, all talking furiously, grabbing every doctor in sight. Clark clapped his hands for their attention. Several flashbulbs popped. He announced that Sharon Wilder had just arrived, and was being examined. They would be told developments as they occurred; in the meantime, would they please wait outside?

They did not budge.

“Come on, Doc. What’s the story? Overdose?”

“Barbiturates? Was it barbiturates?”

“LSD?”

“Is it true she slit her wrists?”

“How does she look? You seen her? She pale, or what?”

“O.D? Barbs?”

Clark shook his head, said he had not completed his examination, and repeated that they would be told immediate developments. The questions continued. Finally he promised a preliminary report within fifteen minutes. That seemed to quiet them. Grudgingly, they filed outside.

He went back to the EW.

There were three nurses undressing Sharon Wilder and putting a gown on her. The intern was standing by the wall, watching and sweating slightly.

“God, she’s beautiful,” he said.

Clark frowned. It was true: she looked peaceful and gentle, as if asleep. It was not the way a usual overdose patient looked. Someone with a bottle of phenobarbital sloshing in his stomach was sick: he was pale, gray, ill-looking with a thready pulse and labored respirations.

He knew, even before he checked her pulse and blood pressure, that it would be normal. The entire examination, in fact, was normal.

He began to have an odd feeling.

When he saw that one of the sheets had been stained blue, he stopped the examination.

“Harry,” he said to the intern. “Call Dr. Jackson.”

“What do you want that bastard for?”

“Call him.”

Harry looked puzzled, and left. He returned some minutes later, with Jackson at his side.

“I thought you would be interested,” Clark said to Jackson. “Does she look asleep?”

“Yes, but she’s not.”

“Why do you say that?”

“These film people. It’s sure to be an overdose of something.”

Clark shrugged. “Pulse is 74 and strong. Respirations are 18 and regular. Blood pressure is good, no localizing signs, no distress.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Jackson said irritably. “You should know that. She may be in the early stages of narcosis, and it may progress in the next few hours.”

Clark showed him the blue spot on the sheets.

“Idiopathic drug reaction,” Jackson said, not blinking. “If I were you, doctor, I’d stop making such a mystery of this and treat the patient. Pump her stomach and get on with it.”

And he walked out.

When he was alone, Clark shook the girl’s head back and forth, and said, “Sharon, Sharon…” in her ear.

She did not respond.

He continued this for several minutes, then, looking around hesitantly, he slapped her hard across her beautiful high cheekbones.

He waited.

Nothing happened.

“Gentlemen, I can report at this time that Miss Wilder is being examined and treated. She is comatose for reasons which are not clear at this time, but her condition at present is stable.”

“What’s the story? Was it an overdose?”

“We have no information on that.”

“Did she hit her head? Did she have a fight?”

“There are no signs of trauma.”

“Of what?”

“Injury. No signs of physical injury.”

“Is it true she was drunk when she came in?”

“We have no reason to believe so.”

“Was it LSD?”

“Almost certainly not.”

“How long will she be in the hospital?”

“It’s impossible to predict.”

“Is she on the critical list?”

“Not at this time.”

A nurse came up and whispered in his ear that there was a woman in the emergency ward who claimed to be Miss Wilder’s secretary.

Clark nodded, said to the reporters, “That’s all for now,” and walked back with the nurse to the EW.

Gertrude Finch looked like a giant toad. She was an enormous woman, squat, heavyset, wearing a green print dress. She appeared to be about fifty years old, and very frightened.

“I understand you’re Miss Wilder’s secretary.”

“That’s right, Doctor. Her special assistant, you might say.”

“I see. You found her?”

“That’s right, Doctor. She was lying on her bed, on her back, you know, all dressed up for her date. But out like a light. Her date was downstairs, so I shook her to wake her up. She didn’t wake. So I called the ambulance.”

“Were there any pills around? Any bottles of medication?”

“No, nothing. A glass of water by the bed, but no bottles.”

“Had she taken any medicines recently?”

“Well, she had this sunburn ointment, that she flew in special from Paris.”

“But no drugs?”

“No, Doctor.”

“Had she been depressed? Unhappy? Moody?”

“No, nothing like that. She was always in good spirits, you might say. She was getting ready to start another picture next month.”

Clark took out his notebook. “Do you know who her doctors are?”

Gertrude Finch nodded. “There’s her regular doctor. He’s Dr. Callaway, in Beverly Hills. But she hasn’t seen him for almost a year. And then her psychiatrist, Dr. Shine. He’s a hypnotist actually, but he has some kind of degree, I don’t know. And then her dermatologist, Dr. Vorhees. He’s the one who prescribed the sunburn cream.”

Clark wrote it down. “Anyone else?”

“Well, no, except for her dates.”

“She’s been dating doctors?”

“Just one. He doesn’t practice; he’s in research.”

Clark needed to know anyone who might have given her drugs. “What’s his name?”

“Let me think.” Miss Finch stared at the floor, frowning. “It’s a real funny name. You have a cigarette?”

Clark didn’t, but the nurse did. Miss Finch lit it and puffed as she stared at the floor. Finally, she snapped her fingers.

“George Washington. That’s it.”

“What’s so funny about that name?”

“His middle initial,” said Miss Finch, “is K. George K. Washington. I’d call that a very peculiar name.”

Clark wrote it down, tore the page out of his notebook, and gave it to Harry, the intern.

“Get hold of these people. Find out if any of them have prescribed medicines for Miss Wilder.”

Harry left.

“I do hope she’s all right,” Miss Finch said. “We’re all quite attached to her. I was talking to Godfrey, the cook, about her and we both said we were very attached to her.” She bit her lip.

“What’s the matter?”

“Well, it’s Godfrey. What he said.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, when they carried her downstairs and out to the ambulance, he saw her and said, ‘Mark my words, she has sleeping sickness. African sleeping sickness.’”

“That’s very unlikely,” Clark said.

“Oh, thank God, I was so worried,” Miss Finch said, and burst into tears.

Clark went back to check on Sharon Wilder, but her condition was unchanged. Gastric lavage and emptying of stomach contents had disclosed no material of any sort, not even particles of food.

Clark reported to the press that the patient’s status was unchanged; the reporters took this lack of news with ill grace. Talking with them, he had the distinct impression they didn’t care whether she got better or worse, just so she changed.

Returning to the EW, he had an idea. He went over to Gertrude Finch.

“Miss Finch, where is Sharon Wilder’s purse?”

“Her purse?”

“Yes.”

“I have it here. Why?”

“With your permission, I’d like to examine it. We might get some clue as to what she took to put her in a coma.”

Miss Finch hesitated. “I don’t know…”

“This could be important.”

“Well, all right.”

Together, they went into a conference room and emptied the contents. There was a suede wallet with a hundred dollars, a driver’s license, two gasoline credit cards, and three pictures of herself. There were two kinds of eye shadow, five kinds of lipstick, two tubes of mascara, powder, and aspirin. There was also an address book which Clark put to one side. As he continued looking, he found a dial pack of birth control pills and a dozen condoms.

Miss Finch sniffed. “I hope, Doctor, that this will remain in your confidence.”

“Of course,” Clark said. Privately, he wondered about a girl who needed both condoms and pills.

Further search unearthed three cancelled checks, a card for a beauty appointment six months ago, an old telephone bill, and an assortment of ticket stubs to theaters and movies.

“She’s always been fond of movies,” Miss Finch said. “She sees them all, even the ones she’s not in.”

Clark nodded, and continued rummaging. He found a final object: a small clear plastic cylinder with a flexible plastic top. It looked for all the world like a container for prescription pills, except for the size: it could not have held more than a single capsule. He turned it over in his hand.

“What’s this?”

“I’ve never seen it before.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Sure.”

Clark frowned. “It’s obviously some kind of container…” He removed the top, and sniffed. He smelled nothing.

The purse was now empty. He turned it upside down and shook it, just to be sure. Something fell out with a metallic clang, struck the table and bounced to the floor. He bent over to pick it up.

It was a small tuning fork.

“And this?”

“I don’t know,” Miss Finch said. “But I do know that one of her dates gave it to her. She knew a lot of scientists and egghead types, you might say. They were always giving her things. One once gave her a telescope so she could look at the planets. She was always very interested in astrology.”

Clark turned the fork over, examining the surfaces. There were no manufacturer’s marks; he had never seen one like it before. He struck the tines against the table, and listened to the high-pitched hum. Then he shrugged, and dropped it back into the purse. He put the rest of the contents back in, except for the address book.

“I’d like to look through this.”

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” Miss Finch said. She took the address book and put it in the purse.

Harry, the intern, stuck his bead into the conference room.

“I called all the people. The internist says he hasn’t seen her for a year, and didn’t prescribe anything. The psychiatrist is a real weirdo. Says he never prescribes drugs. The dermatologist is in Europe. And I checked on this Dr. George K. Washington.”

“What about him?”

“He’s not listed as an M.D. There’s a G.K. Washington in the phone book, but not as a doctor.”

“She always called him Doctor,” Miss Finch said.

“It is a little funny,” Harry said.

“What’s that?”

“Well, he lists an office and home phone. Here.” He handed Clark the list of names and numbers.

“Maybe he’s not a medical doctor,” Clark said. Then he looked at the numbers more closely and frowned.

“Is something wrong?” Miss Finch said.

“No,” Clark said. “Nothing at all.”

He went again to check on Sharon Wilder, but her condition remained the same—stable, apparently sleeping, but unarousable. When he left the room, he met a short, powerfully built man in a black raw silk suit.

“How is she, Doc?”

“She appears all right.”

The man held out his hand. “You’re Clark, right? I’m Tony Lafora, Sharon’s agent.”

They shook hands. Lafora had a hearty grip. “You checked her over real good, Doc?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Fine. Then I gotta talk to you.”

“I’d like to talk to you, too.”

At one end of the EW was a coffee machine. They went and got two cups, and took them back to the conference room. When they were alone, Lafora produced a hip flask and poured a shot into the coffee. He raised the cup in silent toast, gulped it back, and shivered.

“Now then, Doc. Give it to me straight. Is she gonna make it?”

“I think so.”

“Look, Doc I’m strong. I’m tough. If she’s—”

Clark said, “Your investment is secure, Mr. Lafora.”

For a moment, Tony Lafora frowned, and then he smiled. “You mean it?”

“Well,” Clark said, “we don’t know what she took that made her unconscious. You may be able to help us with that Do you know if she was taking any drugs?”

“Sharon?” He laughed. “Doc, she’s had them all.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, she’s an LA girl. Been around the town a long time. This is a drug town, all kinds of drugs.”

“Was she taking any unusual drugs, anything experimental?”

Lafora shook his head. “No, nothing like that. Besides, don’t want to do the drug thing on her. It won’t work.”

“It won’t?”

“You know, it doesn’t play right. It just doesn’t go.”

Clark said, “I don’t understand.”

“What I mean is, Sharon’s a big star, and when a big star gets sick, there has to be an explanation for the press. Weirdo drugs don’t work. The people in Des Moines don’t buy it: how about phenobarb? Something simple?”

“It doesn’t look like barbiturate intoxication.”

“But you can’t be positive, right?”

“No, we can’t be positive, but—”

“Okay, Doc. Look: this is Thursday afternoon. We want to have something for the Friday papers, right? Let me work on it.”

Clark said nothing. Lafora grabbed his hand and shook it.

“I knew I could count on you, doc.”

He gave Clark a slap on the back and was gone.

An hour later, when Clark went out to tell the press there was no change in Sharon’s condition, he arrived to hear Tony Lafora telling them about the star’s depression over a secret and very unhappy love, and how the star had probably taken phenobarb.

At six in the morning, a nurse called him to say that Sharon Wilder was awake.

He found her sitting up in the bed, clutching the sheet to her neck, looking very vulnerable, confused and pretty.

“They tell me you saved my life,” she said. Her voice was husky.

“Not really,” he said.

“I want you to know I appreciate it.”

“Any time,” he said. He was struck by her beauty. She stared at him.

“You’re kind of cute,” she said.

He grinned. “So are you.”

“Yeah, but I’m paid for it. Can I get dressed?”

“I think so. How do you feel?”

“Just great.” She gave him a dazzling smile.

He found her clothes for her and waited outside while she dressed. When he returned, she was slipping into a pair of heels. He went over to the bed to look for the blue spot.

It was gone.

“Tell me, Miss Wilder—”

“Call me Sharon.”

“All right, Sharon. What do you remember about yesterday evening?”

“Well, I got dressed early, because it was a new dress and I was afraid it wouldn’t fit. So I took a shower, and dressed early, and did my face, and then sat down on the bed to relax before George arrived.”

“George?”

“George Washington. He’s this adorable biophysicist I know, really a dear. I don’t know him very well, I just met him in fact.”

“I see.”

“And I was waiting for him to arrive.”

“And?”

“And that’s all I remember.”

“Nothing else?”

She shook her head.

“Did you take anything?”

“A shower.”

“I meant, any drugs?”

“No. Why?”

“We can’t understand why you went into a coma.”

She laughed. “Neither can I, but it doesn’t matter, does it?” She kissed him on the cheek. “You’re sweet to care. By the way, is there a phone around here?”

“In the hall.”

“Good.” |

She went outside. Clark watched her go, unable to help noticing her body. He heard her drop a dime into the phone, and he thought about what she had said. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the list of physicians and their phone numbers that Harry had given him. It was rather odd that she claimed she didn’t know George Washington well, he thought.

Because he had noticed a telephone bill in her purse. It was a bill three months old, and there were numerous long-distance charges to a number in Santa Monica.

The number was the office phone of George K. Washington.

Odd.

He found himself listening to her conversation on the phone.

“Harvey? Listen, it was beautiful! Just beautiful! Scrambled my brains. Wow! Yes…. I’ll talk to you later. No, no problems at all. I think it’s working. Fine. Right Bye….”

She hung up.

Clark went out to sign her discharge papers. It was a brief formality, and afterward she shook hands with him and said, “Why don’t you walk me out to my taxi?”

“All right.”

On the way, she said, “You really are cute. I was watching you sign the forms. When are you coming over for a drink?”

“I’m pretty busy, Miss Wilder.”

“I told you, call me Sharon.” She smiled. “And even busy doctors get some time off.”

Outside the hospital, he was surprised to find a half-dozen photographers. Sharon forced him to pose with her, and they took several more pictures as he helped her into the cab.

She looked out the window and said, “Remember that drink. My bar is always open and waiting.”

Then she reached up and kissed him.

The flashbulbs popped.

3. TAILSPIN II

HE WAS TIRED WHEN he got home. The apartment, as usual, was a mess; he never seemed able to get it completely clean, even when a girl was coming over.

He pushed a pair of dirty socks off the couch and sat down to read his mail. There were bills for the most part; a letter from a friend in the army, saying he hated it; a note from his travel agent reporting that Clark’s tickets to Mexico City were waiting, and that hotel reservations had been confirmed.

Clark was due for a month’s vacation, to start in a week. He had been looking forward to a trip to Mexico, a chance to get away from California and everyone he knew, a chance to be by himself.

Now, he suddenly found the prospect of a month alone in Mexico City less agreeable. It surprised him to find he was thinking differently, and it was several minutes before he realized what had changed.

Sharon Wilder.

As soon as he thought of it, he pushed her from his mind. It was foolish to even contemplate; film people were terrible, demanding, petty and childish; he shouldn’t even consider getting mixed up with…

He sighed.

He got up and made himself a drink, and then decided that he would call her, that it couldn’t possibly hurt anything if he just called.

Sharon’s number was not listed, so he called Gertrude Finch and got it from her.

A stiffly formal male voice answered: “Miss Wilder’s residence.”

“This is Dr. Clark calling. I wonder—”

“Oh yes, Dr. Clark. Miss Wilder left a message for you.” He had a queer sensation, part pleasure, part something else. “She did?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get it for you.”

There was a pause, and then: “Dr. Clark? Pier Four, Marina Capitan. That’s in Long Beach. You’re to arrive after nine.”

Clark frowned.

“Shall I repeat that, sir?”

“No,” he said, still frowning.

“Very good, sir. Thank you for calling.”

The man at the other end hung up.

“What do you know about that?” Roger Clark said aloud. And he decided that he knew nothing about that, and went to shower and change.

Marina Capitan was an elegant, exclusive mooring filled with huge powerboats. At night the boats, all polished wood and gleaming chrome, rocked quietly in the dark. On pier Four, a large cruiser was lighted and noisy; Clark headed toward. it As he approached he could see people dancing on the stern and on the foredeck, and inside, people packed tight, drinking, talking, laughing.

He climbed the gangway, noting the name neatly stenciled on the bow: TAILSPIN II. As he came aboard he met a short, stocky man in bathing trunks and a knitted blue shirt

“Who’re you?” the man said.

“Roger Clark.”

“I don’t know you,” the man said.

“I’m looking for Miss Wilder.”

“Oh yes,” the man said. He smiled. “You’re the sawbones.” He stuck out his hand. “Glad to have you aboard. Always glad to have a doctor: we may need you, after the broken glass. My name’s Pietro O’Hara.”

“How do you do. What broken glass?”

“Oh,” O’Hara said, “there isn’t any yet but there will be. I know: I’ve given parties like this before.”

“It’s your boat?”

“Of course.” He grinned. “Business expense, naturally. Couldn’t manage it otherwise. Come on down and get yourself onto my accountant’s ledgers, and have a drink.” O’Hara squeezed through the crowd toward the bar, and Clark followed. The people were well-dressed, though rather garishly; the women were showing a lot of—

“Scotch?” O’Hara said.

“Please.”

—back, breasts, and legs. He noticed several quite stunning.

“She won’t be here for a while,” O’Hara said.

“Who?”

“Sharon. She always comes late, so to speak.” He gave a gurgling chuckle that seemed to well up from his intestines. “You interested in art?”

In the corner, a girl wore day-glo bodypaint and nothing else. “Yes.”

“Good. I’m an artist. I’ll show you some of my stuff. Do you like that particular piece?”

“What piece?” He looked away from the girl, back to O’Hara.

“Judy,” O’Hara said. “Did her this afternoon. A particularly effective composition, I believe. I like the colors and lines.”

“Yes,” Clark said.

“That particular work of art is for sale,” O’Hara said. “Two hundred dollars. A night. Come along, and I’ll show you some of my other things.”

They pushed through the crowd until they came to a corner of the cabin. There they paused before a square block of wood, into which was set a four-foot piece of round doweling, with a pointed tip. On the doweling was a sign which said, “HOSTILITY.”

O’Hara beamed proudly. “How do you like it?”

“Remarkable,” Clark said, taking a sip of Scotch.

“I’m very pleased with it. Came to me in a burst, a pure flash of inspiration. I was sleeping at the time, and jumped right up and built it.”

“Very interesting.”

“It’s entitled, ‘Hostility on Your Part.’ That’s because it’s supposed to represent a phallus. Did you get that? Some people don’t, right off.”

Clark smiled.

“I think it’s pretty funny, myself,” O’Hara said, and laughed.

Clark laughed.

“Love a man with a sense of humor,” O’Hara said. “Come on.”

In another part of the room was a small wooden statue of a beaver. It was quite carefully and accurately made.

“Like it?”

“Very good.”

“I call it ‘The Ultimate Beaver.’”

O’Hara slapped his thigh, roared, and spilled his drink. Clark dutifully laughed.

“You can see the kind of a mind I have,” O’Hara said, “but what the hell. I love my work. Come on.”

Shortly, they came to a painting of a hamburger, rendered accurate in every detail. Catsup was oozing out of the sides of the bun. O’Hara paused to look critically at the painting for several minutes.

“Now then,” he said, “this is a major work. Major.”

“I see.”

“Perhaps you can help me with it.”

“I’ll try.”

“I finished this a year ago, and I haven’t been able to decide on a title. No title, no money. Who’d buy a hamburger without a title?”

“Ummm.”

“My first thought was ‘Eat Me’, but that seemed a little obvious, don’t you think?”

“Yes. Obvious.”

“So then I thought of ‘Meat Between Your Buns’, but that seemed a little gross.”

“Gross,” Clark nodded.

“You realize, of course, that my subject, my life’s work, is filth. The future of pop art is filth and pornography. I’m trying to satirize pornography in my creations. See?”

“Yes.”

“So if the title isn’t good, it doesn’t go. Listen, I’ll tell you something. My first important piece, the one that brought me into the big time, was a thing I sold to some producer. It was an ordinary household fan, spray-painted shocking pink. You know what I called it?”

Clark shook his head, afraid to guess.

“‘Blowjob’,” O’Hara announced in triumph. “That’s what I called it, and it went for a thousand dollars. I had lots of offers for it. A great success. And now look at me.” He waved his hand around the yacht. “I have money, women, fame and fortune.”

“I can see that.”

O’Hara leaned close, and looked steadily at Clark. “Yeah, but I’ll tell you. Man to man: I’m not happy.”

“No?”

“It’s true. I was happier when I was working as a garage mechanic, and dreaming of making it big. Now… success seems empty to me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Clark said.

“It’s the price of creativity,” O’Hara said, and wandered off.

“Brilliant, absolutely brilliant,” the man said. “If I say so myself. You know how it happened?”

“No,” Clark said. He had begun speaking to the man a few minutes before; he had introduced himself as Johnny Kane. He was very drunk.

“Well, it was a beautiful spring day, and I was sitting in my office, thinking about the account. We needed a fresh approach, but we were limited. I mean, there are things you just can’t say, and the public is sensitive. You can’t have somebody say, ‘My hemorrhoids were killing me, until I switched to X,’ and you can’t say, ‘Boy, did I ever have trouble with cramps and farting until I discovered Y.’ I’m talking about the tracts, now.”

“I see,” Clark said.

“So I was thinking, what do you say? What can you say? And then I realized that this was deep down distress, nothing shallow, but deep down distress, in the lower tract. For that deep down pain and discomfort in the lower tract, take the one medication that doctors recommend for their own—”

“Hello, darling,” a voice whispered in his ear. He turned: Sharon was wearing a crochet dress over a bodystocking, and a calm smile. She looked directly at him.

“I hear there’s a great view from the bridge,” she said.

“Is there?”

“You mustn’t miss it,” she said.

She took his arm and they moved through the crowd, then up a narrow stairs. She went first; he followed.

“Stop looking at my legs,” she said, as they went up.

“Be careful,” he said, “or I’ll bite your ankle.”

She stopped.

She lifted her foot back, to his face.

He looked at it for a moment, then bit the ankle. It was rather pleasant, actually, salty and nice.

She laughed. “Does that appeal to you?”

“No. It’s the way I get my kicks. Lost two front teeth once.”

“I’ll remember to be careful,” she said, and laughed again.

Up on the bridge, they could look down on the foredeck, and the couples dancing in the moonlight.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t telephone,” she said. “But I’m glad you decided to come.”

“Anytime,” he said.

“Well, later then,” she said.

“Ladies first,” he said.

She laughed. “My, you doctors are daring on your nights off.”

And he looked at her, and he thought to himself that it was funny, it was all pretty funny, and the drink was hitting him awfully hard, and Sharon said “I like considerate men,” and he moved forward to kiss her.

And fell. A long, long way.

4. THE LOVE NEXT

“RISE AND SHINE.”

He opened his eyes and smelled coffee. Sunlight streaming into a large room, across a vast bed. Sheets touching his skin. Sharon Wilder standing over him in a short robe, holding a tray.

“Good morning,” she said. “Did you sleep well?” He was confused, still thinking oddly and slowly. The boat…

“Very well.”

“Good,” she said. She set the tray on the bed and stretched. “So did I.”

He looked across the bed at the other pillow, and then he looked back at her. She wore no makeup, her hair was loose and tangled, and she looked marvelous.

She handed him a coffee cup. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “about last night.”

“Not a bit,” he said, trying to remember.

“I know it must have been dull for you,” she said.

He had a vague memory, a slight stirring. “Absolutely not. It was wonderful.”

“I meant the party,” she said. “That dreadful party.”

“Oh yes.”

She giggled and kissed him on the neck. His coffee spilled; he jumped; she giggled again.

“I like you,” she said.

Then she went into a large closet, and began to dress. He glanced around the room. It was done in gold and white, with a huge bed covered with a canopy.

“Is this your bedroom?”

She giggled. “Yes. Don’t you remember?”

He looked out the window, at a broad lawn. “And your house?”

“Yes. I call it the Love Next. Do you like it?”

“Well, I haven’t seen very much of it.”

“Silly, I showed it all to you last night.”

“I meant the house.”

“So did I.”

She came out wearing a short skirt and blouse. “You’ll probably want to take a shower. It’s right in there.” She pointed to a door.

“Thanks.”

“Meantime I’ll make breakfast. Eggs and bacon?”

“You cook too?”

“Just mornings. I don’t like the servants around in the mornings.”

She walked out of the room and he got slowly up from the bed. He could remember nothing of the night before, nothing since being on the bridge of the boat.

It was odd, disorienting. He must have been drunk as hell. Yet there was no hangover; in fact, he felt marvelous. Better than he’d felt in a long time.

He walked around the room, looking at her makeup desk, her closet, a small writing table in the corner. There was a letter on top of the desk; he glanced at it curiously. It was from a travel agency, stating that her two tickets to San Cristobal Island were enclosed. The payment had been made by Advance, Inc. and all was in order. She would fly by jet from Los Angeles to Miami, and change planes for Nassau. From there she would travel by the special hotel airplane to San Cristobal.

Clark frowned. He had never heard of San Cristobal. And he wondered about the hotel; the letter did not specify it by name.

Peculiar, he thought.

He stepped into the shower and turned it on, very hot.

When he came out, he began to look for his clothes. They were not in the bedroom; he looked out in the hall and found a tie and a pair of socks. He picked them up and continued, finding his shirt, then his pants. He came into a living room, very simple and elegant. His jacket was thrown over a couch, his shoes on the floor, and two half-finished martinis stood on the coffee table.

“Find everything?” Sharon called.

“Yes, thanks.”

He dressed and went into the kitchen. Sharon was scooping eggs onto two plates. He sat down and they ate; she was in a hurry: she had a beauty parlor appointment in an hour, and then the photographers an hour after that…

He smiled. “Busy girl.”

“Not really. Just pre-publicity for the next film. Actually, I’m going on vacation in a week.”

“That’s funny. So am I.”

“Where are you going?”

“Mexico City.”

She made a face. “Don’t like it,” she said. “Too dusty. You should go where I’m going.”

“Where’s that?”

“San Cristobal. It’s a new resort in the Caribbean.”

That explained why he had never heard of it. On an impulse, he said, “Why don’t we go together?”

She shook her head. “Can’t.”

“Why not?”

She gave him an odd smile. “Previous engagement. Maybe next vacation?”

“All right,” he said. “Maybe the next one.”

5. SHINE ON

HE TOOK A CAB back to the Long Beach pier, got into his car, sat down and thought things over. He was feeling suddenly very peculiar. He had just spent the night with Sharon Wilder—every man’s dream—and he could remember nothing about it. He had slept in her bed, and showered in her shower, eaten breakfast in her kitchen and God knew what else.

And he could remember nothing about it

Today was his day off, and he had intended to spend it with the travel agent, discussing his vacation plans. But he was puzzled, feeling off-balance. Reaching into his pocket, he found the list of doctors Sharon Wilder had been seeing. An internist, a dermatologist, a psychiatrist, and the mysterious Dr. George K. Washington.

He decided, for no very good reason, to pay a call on the psychiatrist.

Dr. Abraham Shine seemed to own two houses. One was located near the road, a modern, rectangular structure. There was a sign by the door which said, “Office.” Farther back, along a gravel drive, was a mansion of pink stucco, secluded among carefully tended shrubs and bushes. Clark parked and went into the office.

He immediately found himself in a small but plush reception area. Two things attracted his attention. There was a massive modern structure sculpture of interlocking polished chrome spheres. And there was a receptionist with large eyes and spheres that did not interlock.

“May I help you?”

“I’m, uh, Dr. Clark, Roger Clark…”

“Yes, Doctor. Do you have an appointment?”

“Well, no—”

“I’m afraid it’s necessary to make an appointment to see the doctor.”

“Actually, I just wanted to see him for a few minutes—”

The receptionist shook her head. Other things moved as well. “I’m sorry, Dr. Shine is very firm. You must have an appointment to see him. After all,” she said, in a reasonable voice, “if he took people without an appointment, where would we be?”

Clark was thinking that over when she said, “I can’t tell you how many people—sick, troubled people like yourself—have come to us and asked to see the doctor for just a few minutes. He has to keep his schedule. Think of all the suffering, the unhappiness, the sad and lost souls that we treat here.”

“In Beverly Hills?”

“Rich people,” the girl said sternly, “are not necessarily happy people.”

Somehow, the way she said it, Clark had the feeling she was quoting somebody. He had an idea who it might be.

“Look, Miss—”

“Connor. Janice Connor.”

“Look, Miss Connor, I’m not seeking advice for myself.”

“A relative? Your wife?”

“No, I’m not married.”

“I see,” she said. She began to smile at him.

“Actually, Miss Connor, this is a professional matter concerning a mutual patient of Dr. Shine and myself.”

“Well…”

“And Miss Connor, I know this may be impertinent of me, but…”

“Yes…”

“Are you free for dinner?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Eight o’clock?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And about seeing Dr. Shine…”

“He has a free half-hour,” she said, “at ten-thirty.”

The office was large, furnished as plushly as a bordello. Clark entered to see Dr. Abraham Shine rising from behind his desk.

“Dr. Clark, is it?” Shine said.

“Yes.” Clark looked at Shine. It was a shock to see how old the man was. His face was heavily creased, his hair white and thin, his body paunchy.

“I’m from LA Memorial.”

“Oh, yes. One of your people called me about Sharon Wilder, if I remember.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I have a free half hour. If you don’t mind sitting by the pool, we can talk there.”

“Of course.”

They went through a rear door, and walked up the grassy lawn toward the mansion. Shine led him around to the back, toward a large swimming pool. Shine dropped into a deck chair and motioned Clark to another alongside.

“Time was,” he said, “when I’d use these half-hour breaks to swim. Madly: five miles a day. Now, I couldn’t get from one end of that pool to the other.” He sighed. “I’m seventy-two years old, and feeling every minute of it.”

Shine shook his head, and stared at the Water. There was a moment of silence; Clark waited, then said, “About Sharon Wilder…”

“Oh yes. Sharon. Remarkable young woman. She’ll go far, I think. Very far, in this town. When she came to me, of course, she was rather upset.”

“How so?”

“Well, she was just beginning her, ah, campaign to appear on the cover of everything published in the western world. She is a sensitive girl, and she was bothered by a recurrent delusion.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. She was convinced that she was just a pawn, an instrument being manipulated by some shadowy organization.”

Clark thought of Tony Lafora. “But her agent is—”

“Not her agent,” Shine said. “It had nothing to do with her agent. She was bothered by thoughts of some kind of giant, scientific corporation which was controlling her life and career. She dreamed about it.”

“Very peculiar.”

“Not really. It’s a rather common delusion among young girls in this town. I suppose because it isn’t really a delusion—for many of them, it’s absolutely true. The studios manipulate them, humiliate them, exploit them, use them. And then discard them when they begin to show the wear and tear.”

“What corporation was Sharon worried about?”

“She couldn’t say. That was the trouble. She couldn’t get that clear in her own mind. It was a sort of free-floating, American anxiety. Fear of the great corporation—”

“—in the sky.”

Shine laughed. “I suppose. Anyway, I cured her of it by my usual method: hypnosis. My techniques are unorthodox, but they work. I put her into a deep trance, and then counter-suggested various ego-affective principles. After three sessions, she was convinced that her destiny was in her own hands, that she was free. That’s not really true, of course, but it is an easier delusion to live with.”

“I see,” Clark said.

At that moment, a strikingly beautiful blonde girl appeared by the pool. She could not have been more than eighteen or nineteen, and she wore a very small, very thin red bikini. “Your daughter?”

“My wife,” Dr. Shine said, with a contented sigh.

The girl nodded to them, and dived into the pool. She swam back and forth with long, easy strokes. They watched for a while, then Clark said, “Did you prescribe any drugs for Sharon?”

“No. I do not believe in drugs. They are a waste of time. Psychoactive drugs depend heavily upon suggestion; every clinical study has proven that, beyond question. I prefer to give the suggestion directly, and skip the chemicals.”

“Do you know if she was taking any drugs from other sources?”

“Yes. Certainly she was. Her sexual frustrations were driving her to seek satisfactions in other areas. At one time I was afraid she would become a narcotics addict, but that never happened, fortunately.”

“Did she talk much about drugs?”

“Only in the beginning. They fascinated her: part of her preoccupation with manipulation and artificial personalities, supplied from some external source. She believed, for a time, that drugs could really change her, make her something else, something different. I was able to correct that attitude.”

“What is your opinion of her present status?”

“Sharon’s? Excellent. One of my most successful cases.”

Clark nodded politely. He was obviously getting nowhere. He stood, thanked Dr. Shine for his time, and was about to leave when a thought occurred to him.

“By the way,” he said, “have you ever treated any Angels?”

“Angels?”

“Hell’s Angels.”

“Funny you should ask. I have one under treatment now.”

“Who’s that?”

“Arthur Lewis. A wild one. His father’s a television producer, and there is a lot of money. The boy’s assimilating it badly. Victim of affluence, you might say. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondered,” Clark said.

Ten minutes later, after Clark had gone, Mrs. Shine climbed out of the pool and towelled herself dry.

“Who was that?” she asked her husband.

“A doctor. He’s been treating some of the coma people, and I’m afraid he’s puzzled. He didn’t come out and say it, but it was on his mind.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” Dr. Shine said, smiling.

“You mean he’s—”

“Exactly. He’s the one.”

“Poor guy. He was kind of cute.”

“Don’t worry,” Shine said. “He’ll be well taken care of.”

6. INTERLUDE: SYBOCYL

RETURNING TO HIS APARTMENT, Clark found Peter Moss in the lobby. Moss was the detail man for Wilson, Speck and Loeb, the drug company. As usual, he carried a huge satchel stuffed with samples.

“Hello, Roger. I was just calling to see if you were home.”

“Come on up,” Clark said.

They rode the elevator together. “Got some great new stuff this time,” Moss said, patting the satchel. “Great new stuff.”

“What is it this month? Antihypertensives?” There had recently been a spate of new antihypertensive drugs from several companies. The detail men were pushing them like mad.

“Naw. That’s old stuff. Now we’re working with Sybocyl.”

The elevator arrived at the tenth floor. Clark unlocked the door to his apartment. “Sybocyl? What’s that?”

“New stuff, just finished clinical testing. The FDA is going to release it in about a week.”

“Yes; but what is it?”

“Marvelous stuff,” Moss said, sitting down and opening his briefcase.

Clark took off his jacket and tie. “Yes, but what?”

“The FDA is just finishing up on it. Testing the rats and monkeys. For a while, we didn’t think we could market it, because it caused toxic reactions in the yellow ostrich.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Seems it drove them insane. Lost all desire to bury their heads in sand. Of course, it only affected female ostriches.”

“Who discovered this?”

“The FDA. They also discovered that it turned the second. molars of immature Hamadryas baboons an odd brown color. That was a setback, too.”

“I’m sure. But what about people?”

“Well, you know how it is. With such odd reactions in animals, the FDA was unwilling to release it for clinical trial. And after the business with the Norway rat—”

“What was that?”

“Well, they discovered that administration of the drug to the Norway rat, research strain K-23, induced uncontrollable vomiting.”

“Unfortunate,” Clark said.

“A mechanism involving the chemoreceptor trigger zone in the medulla was postulated.”

“Quite naturally.”

“Well, no,” Moss said. “After all, there might have been a peripheral effect as well as a central one.”

“Yes,” Clark admitted. He had learned long ago that you had to let Moss talk for a while. Like most detail men, Moss had attended a junior college in business administration; he knew nothing about science or drugs, but had read the journals and dutifully memorized them.

“Of course,” Moss continued, “there was one hitch. In order to induce the vomiting, they had to administer rather heavy doses.”

“Oh?”

“In fact, they had to administer the rat’s own weight in the drug.”

“I see.”

“Hardly a physiologic condition. After all, can you imagine giving a 150-pound man 150 pounds of penicillin? Make anyone sick. Still, the FDA was suspicious. It was months,” Moss said, “before we started the clinical trials. They were done in Baltimore, Chicago and Cleveland, and fortunately, responses were gratifying. Sybocyl passed with flying colors.” Moss reached into his satchel and produced a small bottle of pink capsules. “And here it is!” he cried dramatically, thrusting it into Clark’s hands.

“Very nice,” Clark said, looking at the bottle.

“Sybocyl,” said Moss, “is the ultimate wonder drag. It stops cardiac arrhythmias, is a bronchodilator, has direct diuretic effects, stimulates the myocardium to increase contractility, is bactericidal, and is a CNS stimulant and sedative.”

“A stimulant and sedative?”

“Strange as it seems,” Moss said, “it is. The ultimate wonder drug. You can give it for anything except measles and clap.”

“Remarkable,” Clark said, frowning. “Any side effects?”

“None.”

“None?”

“None at all.” Moss chuckled. “It has so many therapeutic effects, there’s hardly room for side effects, eh?”

“What about contraindications?” Contraindications were medical situations in which the drug could not be given.

“Relatively few. There are one or two.”

“What are they?”

“Here,” Moss said. “I’ll give you the literature.” He stood and looked at his watch. “Time for me to be off. Can I leave anything else with you?”

“Some aspirin,” Clark said. “I have a headache.”

Moss frowned. “We have something much better than aspirin. Have you tried Phenimol?”

“No.”

“Great stuff. Antipyretic, anti-inflammatory, and very strong analgesic. No side effects. And it works very well on cancer of the colon, if you happen to have—”

“I don’t.”

“Well, it’s just great for headaches. Just great.”

“Addicting?”

“Well, yes…”

“I’ll take the aspirin,” Clark said.

Moss gave it to him regretfully. As he was leaving, Clark said, “By the way, Pete. You keep up with the experimental drugs, don’t you?”

“Well, I try.”

“Heard anything about a drug that changes urine color?”

“Changes it how?”

“Turns it blue.”

“Blue? No. Why?”

“How about a drug that puts you into a coma?”

Moss laughed. “I can’t imagine a market for it.”

“Neither can I,” Clark said. But the joke started him thinking: suppose Sharon Wilder and Arthur Lewis hadn’t taken the drug accidentally. Suppose they had taken it for a purpose, a specific reason, and the coma was an unrelated side effect…

He shook his head. He didn’t even know that Sharon or the Angel had taken a drug.

After Peter Moss had gone, Clark picked up the bottle of Sybocyl and read the sheet of effects, indications, and contraindications:

“Great stuff,” Clark said. He crumpled the sheet and took the bottle into the bathroom. He poured the pills down the toilet and flushed it, watching as the pink capsules swirled, and were gone.

7. ADVANCE, INC.

HE SAT IN HIS apartment and thought over what had happened to him. He decided that it had all been very peculiar, and very unenlightening. He could, of course, make further calls; he could check with Sharon Wilder’s other doctors, and with George K. Washington, whoever he was. But he had the strange feeling that nothing would come of it, and meantime, there was his Mexico trip to plan for. He was about to call his travel agent when the phone rang.

It was Harry, the intern. “Listen, Rog, I thought you’d want to know. Andrews, the Chief of Medicine, just called. Wanted to know about people urinating blue.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I told him about the two cases you had, and described them.”

“And?”

“And he thanked me and hung up.”

“No explanation?”

“None. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he called you later.”

“Okay,” Clark said. “Thanks.”

As soon as he hung up, the phone rang again.

“Dr. Clark speaking.”

“Clark, this is George Andrews.”

“Hello, Dr. Andrews.”

“Clark, I’m calling about some patients you’ve seen. An Angel named Arthur Lewis, alias Little Jesus, and—”

“Sharon Wilder.”

“Yes. That’s right” Andrews seemed surprised. “How did you know?”

“They were the same kind of patient.”

“That’s what I wanted to speak to you about. As I understand it, they presented with coma, no localizing signs, no respiratory or cardiac depression, and no after-effects when they recovered. Is that right?”

“Yes sir.”

“And they both urinated blue?”

“Yes sir.”

“The reason I ask,” Andrews said, “is that I just got a call from Murdoch at San Francisco General. They get a lot of the Berkeley drug abusers, as well as the Hashbury loonies. Yesterday they got five people in coma as the result of a police raid. General didn’t know what to do about them, so they waited, and the people all came out of it. And there was this blue urine business as well. Murdoch wanted to know if we’d had any similar experience.”

Clark frowned. “He had five cases?”

“Five. Everybody up there is terrified of more. Murdoch’s convinced a new kind of drug is going around. They don’t know where it’s coming from, or who’s making it, or what the chemical nature is like. And the kids aren’t talking, when they come out of the coma. They claim they don’t remember.”

“Perhaps they don’t,” Clark said.

“Exactly,” Andrews said. “There may be a retroactive amnesia. Clark, this could be a serious problem. Very serious. Have you investigated your two patients at all?”

“As a matter of fact, sir, I have. I suspected a new drug, and I’ve looked into their history of ingestion as carefully as I could. I spent the morning with Sharon Wilder’s doctors—”

“Good man.”

“—and came up with nothing.”

Andrews sighed. “Very serious problem,” he repeated. “I can’t urge you strongly enough to follow it up. You know,” he said, “you and I must have a little talk soon.”

“Sir?”

“Well, the hospital has to decide on a chief resident for next year.”

“Yes sir.”

“This drug thing is a very serious problem, very serious indeed. Anyone who clears it up will be doing a great service to the medical community. An immense service. As I recall, you’re going on vacation soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have a good time,” Andrews said. “Ill talk to you when you get back.” And he hung up.

Clark stared at the telephone for several minutes, and then said aloud, “I’ve been bribed.”

He rummaged through his notebook and came up with the list of Sharon Wilder’s physicians. At the bottom of the list was George K. Washington. Office number: 754–6700, extension 126.

He dialed it. After a moment, a pleasant female voice said, “Advance, Incorporated. Good afternoon.”

“Extension one two six, please.”

“One moment, please.”

There was a click as the switchboard put him through. Then more ringing, and another woman’s voice.

“Dr. Washington’s office.”

“This is Dr. Clark calling from LA Mem—”

“Oh yes, Dr. Clark.”

Clark stopped. Oh yes?

“We’ve been waiting for your call,” the girl said. “Dr. Washington is in conference now, but he asked me to tell you an appointment has been set up for four this afternoon. You can discuss the job with him at that time.”

“The job?”

“Yes. You are applying for a job, aren’t you?”

“Uh…yes.”

“Well see you then, Doctor.”

Clark hesitated. There was obviously some mistake, but he might as well take advantage of it.

“One question,” he said. “How do I get there?”

“Take the Santa Monica Freeway to the Los Calos exit, then go north a quarter of a mile. You can’t miss it. There’s a black sign that says Advance, Incorporated by the road.”

Clark hung up and scratched his head. He thought about the name of the corporation; it seemed very familiar. But he could not remember where he had heard it before. After several minutes, he put his tie back on, slipped into his jacket, and headed for the parking lot.

The secretary had been right. It was impossible to miss the sign. It was constructed of black stone, with white lettering:

ADVANCE, INC. BIOSYSTEMS SPECIALISTS

He turned off the road, and parked in a lot alongside the main building, which was starkly modern, walls of green glass. The building was two stories high, and about as large as any of a dozen other small, specialized scientific firms around Los Angeles. In recent years, attracted by government contracts and good weather, scientists had flocked to Southern California, which now had a greater number and higher concentration of scientific minds than any other place in the history of the world.

He paused to look at the building, and wondered what went on inside. He couldn’t tell; it might have been anything from electronics to political science research. He went through the large glass doors to the area marked “Reception.” A woman looked up.

“Can I help you?”

“My name is Clark. I have an appointment with Dr. Washington.”

“Yes, sir.”

She telephoned, spoke briefly, then turned to Clark.

“If you’ll just have a seat, please.”

Clark sat down on a Barcelona chair in the corner, and thumbed through an issue of “The American Journal of Parapsychology” while he waited. In a few minutes, a heavyset guard appeared.

“Dr. Clark?”

“Yes.”

“Please come with me.”

Clark followed the guard down a corridor. They stopped at a nearby room. An old woman was there, surrounded by electronic equipment.

“He’s to see Dr. Washington,” the guard explained.

“All right,” said the woman. She nodded to a camera. “Look over there.”

Clark looked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her press a button; the camera clicked.

“State your name loudly and clearly for our voice recorders.”

“Doctor Roger Clark.”

“No, no,” the woman said. “That will never do. Just your name.”

“Roger Clark,” he said.

“Thank you,” the woman said. She produced a form. “Sign here, please. Waiver of liability.”

“Waiver?”

“It’s routine. Do you want to see Dr. Washington, or not?”

Clark signed. It was all so peculiar, he did not want to argue.

“Thank you,” the woman said, and looked down at her desk.

Clark went on, following the guard, to an elevator. As they walked down the corridor, Clark glanced at the doors, with their neatly stenciled markings:

ALPHA WAVE SYNCH LAB

MASSACT RES UNIT

K PUPPIES

HYPNOESIS 17

WHITE ENVIRON

Clark said, “What kind of work is done here?”

“All kinds,” the guard said.

They got into the elevator and went to the second floor. The guard led him down another corridor to a door marked ENERGICS SUBGROUP. He opened it, and waved Clark inside.

A secretary sat typing a letter, wearing earphones attached to a dictaphone machine. She turned off the machine and removed the earphones. “Dr. Clark? Dr. Washington is expecting you.” She pressed the intercom. “You may go right in.”

Clark passed through a second door, into the sloppiest office he had ever seen. The walls were lined with shelves, which contained pamphlets, notebooks, and stacks of loose paper; books and journals sat in unruly heaps on the floor and on the desk. From behind the debris on the desk, a thin, pale figure rose.

“I am George Kelvin Washington. Do sit down.”

Clark looked for a place to sit. There was a chair, but it was heaped high with manuscripts and journals.

“Just push that junk off,” Dr. Washington said. “It’s not important anyway. Make yourself comfortable.”

Dr. Washington sank back down behind the stacks on the desk. A moment later, he cleared a little tunnel, which allowed him to see Clark, sitting in the chair.

“You’ve come about the job,” Washington said.

“Yes, I—”

“Good, good. You seem a bright young man. I’m not surprised that your interest in Advance, Inc. has been aroused.”

“Yes, it—”

“There is no question that you would find our work challenging. We operate at the very forefront of several areas of investigation. The very forefront.”

“I see,” Clark said, not seeing.

“If I understand correctly,” Washington said, staring down at his desk, “you are a, ah, where is it, oh yes—you are a pharmacologist.”

“That’s correct,” Clark said. He wondered how Washington knew. He wondered what Washington was looking at, on the desk.

“Your job application,” Washington said, “is all in order. Quite complete. I needn’t tell you that we are most interested in your experience in clinical drug testing at the National Institutes. You did that instead of military service?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Excellent. And you’ve had some experience with human drug testing?”

“Limited.”

“Ummm. How limited?”

“Well, we did several tests on experimental drugs for cancer—”

“Yes, yes, all that’s down here,” Washington said, tapping the sheet. “Cancer drugs numbered JJ-4225, and AL-19. Controlled double blind clinical trials involving forty and sixty-nine subjects, respectively. Is that it?”

“Yes,” Clark said, frowning. He had filled out no application. He had certainly never written down—

“Well, that’s fine,” Washington said. “Just fine. Undoubtedly you’re curious about the work you will be doing, if you choose to join the team here.”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“You’ll understand if I can’t be too specific,” Dr. Washington said, scratching the tip of his nose. “We are not a secret organization, but we do need to be careful.”

“You do a lot of government work?”

“Heavens, no! We don’t do any at all. We used to do government work, but that stage is past. Entirely past.” Dr. Washington sighed. “Your work will concern the interaction of organ systems with chemical compounds which affect multiple bodily systems. In most cases, one of the systems will be nervous, but this will not be invariably so.”

“This work is drug-testing, then?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Well,” Washington said, “take my own work. I’m a bio-physicist, myself. I’ve been working on stereochemical interactions of allosteric enzymes. Very challenging.”

“I’m sure. What sort of—”

“Enzymes? Those affecting tryptophan metabolism. Effects upon thyroid, brain, and kidney…precisely the kind of multiple system situation I was describing.”

Clark said, “Can you tell me a little more about the company itself?”

“Yes. We’re a new company, just started two years ago. As you can see, we’ve grown enormously in that period. Advance has a total staff of 207, including fifty secretaries. We have nine divisions, each involved in some broad question of the application of science to man. We are working in electromagnetics, enzymes, ultrasound, peripheral perception. A wide variety of fields.”

“Where do most of your contracts come from?”

“We are a private research and development firm. We make our services available to private industry. But mostly, we work for ourselves.”

“For yourselves?”

“Yes. That is to say, we exploit our own developments. To that extent, we are unique among firms of this type. But I believe that we represent the way of the future—we are the R and D team of the future. Right here, right now. We do everything: we develop, we apply, and we exploit. Do you follow me?”

“I follow you,” Clark said. In fact, he did not understand it at all.

“I’d like,” said Washington, “for you to meet with our president, if you have the time. Better than anyone else, he can tell you about Advance, and what it stands for.”

“That would be wonderful.”

“Good. I’ll try to arrange it.”

He got up from behind his desk and went to the door. “I won’t be a minute,” he said and left, shutting the door behind him.

Clark was alone.

Immediately, he got up and went around behind the desk. He was looking for the paper that Washington had been reading from; Clark’s application. But he did not find it. Indeed, behind the stack of books and pamphlets, the desk was bare.

He opened the drawer to the desk and looked inside. The first thing that he found was a small tuning fork, like the one in Sharon Wilder’s purse.

The second thing was an odd sheet of paper:

WILDER, SHARON (ALICE BLANKFURT)

INDICES:

SYLONO .443

Psycho-sexual .887

LIENO .003

Dermo-phonic .904

CRYO .342

Hyper-sthenic .887

SUMMARY: Initial work with this model reveals satisfactory assimilation of basic parameters with excellent prognosis for future interaction in K-K. There can be no doubt that—

He heard a noise outside, closed the drawer, and resumed his seat.

Dr. Washington returned. “Sorry about the delay,” he said. “Dr. Blood will see you immediately, if that is convenient.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He nodded to the door. “The guard will take you there.” Washington extended his hand. “Good luck, Dr. Clark. I hope you’ll be joining us.”

“Thank you,” Clark said.

Dr. Harvey Blood, president of Advance, Inc., had the largest desk Clark had ever seen. It was curved, bean-shaped, and nine feet long. The surface was brightly polished mahogany. Dr. Blood sat behind his desk, and his face was mirrored in the polish. Clark noticed that the surface was unmarred by pen, paper, or intercom.

“Well, well, well!” Dr. Blood stood, a stocky, red-faced cherub with black unruly hair. “So you’re Dr. Clark.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sit down, Clark. Roger, is it? Let me tell you something about our company, Roger.”

Clark sat.

“I won’t give you a sales pitch, Roger. I’ll just give you the straight dope. We’re a young company, and a growing company. We’ve been in existence for less than five years, and already you can see how we’ve grown. By the end of the year, we will employ more than three hundred people.”

“Very impressive, sir.”

“It certainly is,” Blood said, with a smile. “But we’re not stopping at three hundred. We’re not stopping at three thousand. Far from it: we are going to expand indefinitely.”

“Indefinitely?”

“Yes. Look here: what’s the largest corporation in America today?”

Clark shrugged. “General Motors, I suppose.”

“Right! And what does General Motors do?”

“Makes automobiles.”

”Right again! And what is so great about making automobiles?”

“Well—”

“The answer,” Harvey Blood said, “is that there is nothing very great about automobiles. They are a terrible product. They are destroying our landscape, ruining our cities, poisoning our air. Automobiles are the curse of the modern world.”

“I suppose if you look at it—”

“I do, I do. But now I ask you: what could a corporation do, if it manufactured some product which was not destructive, ruinous, and poisonous? What limits would there be?”

“None.”

“Exactly! None. And if that corporation went even further, to the point where it manufactured positive, healthful, beautiful products and instilled the desire for them, where would it all end?”

Clark said nothing.

“You see? You see how perfect it is?”

Clark could not understand how this was related to enzymes involved in tryptophan synthesis. He said so.

“Look here,” Blood said. “We haven’t got a use for tryptophan yet. But we’re working on it. We’re developing it. That’s what we do here, develop things. We take raw, crude scientific innovation, and we produce applications for it. We innovate, we cogitate, we initiate—the three pillars of our advancing firm.” He chuckled briefly. “You see, Roger, we are specialists in putting knowledge to use. We accumulate useless information, and make it useful. We innovate, cogitate, initiate.”

“I see.”

“And we pay extremely well. I don’t know if you were told, but starting salary for a person of your qualifications is 49,500 dollars.”

“Very reasonable.”

“A well-paid employee is a happy employee, Roger.”

“Yes.”

“I won’t beat around the bush, Roger. You’re thinking of working in our biochemical division, testing drugs. That is one of the most exciting divisions we have. Our people are engaged in testing and applying new compounds in ways previously undreamed of. We are working on the frontiers of research.”

It occurred to Clark that he still had remarkably little idea about the company, and the job they were offering him.

“Intellectual stimulation, pleasant working conditions, and financial compensation. That is what we provide for our employees.”

“Where exactly would I be working? In this building?”

“No,” Blood said. “Our research facilities are located a short distance away. Naturally, since many of our projects are confidential, we must maintain a certain amount of secrecy.”

“Yes.”

Someone entered the room, a cheerful young man, carrying what looked like a large poster.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Blood, but we need approval of the dummy.”

“All right,” Blood said.

Clark leaned forward, hoping for a look at the poster. He could see that it was a penciled drawing of some kind, like an ad for something. Space for copy and photographs were blocked out.

Dr. Blood looked at it closely. “What’s it for?”

“The New Yorker,” the man said. “That’s our first big market.”

“All right,” Dr. Blood said. “Go ahead with it.”

“Thank you sir,” the man said, and left.

“Well now, Roger, where were we? Oh yes, talking about secrecy. It’s a problem, Roger. I’ll be frank. Our confidential work imposes restrictions on all of us. But we manage, and I’m sure you won’t find it much of a burden.” He looked at his watch. “Now, I’m afraid I must go. I have an, ah, appointment in half an hour. Do you have any other questions?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Fine. Then we’ll expect to hear of your decision within the next few days.”

“All right.”

“Good luck, Roger.”

Clark left, with a final glimpse of the stocky, red-faced man and his enormous polished desk. Harvey Blood smiled benignly.

Roger Clark smiled back.

8. THE PLACE TO GO

AERO TRAVEL, LOCATED ON the unfashionable (eastern) end of Sunset Strip, was operated by Ron Harmon. Clark had known him since college days; they had both been in the same fraternity. Since then, Clark had booked all his vacations through Aero and Harmon had arranged for discounts wherever possible. They were old friends.

Clark arrived at the office late in the day, just as Harmon was preparing to shut down. Clark went in, looking past the posters of Switzerland and Hawaii, and inquired about his reservations for Mexico.

“For what?” Harmon said. He seemed rather distant and preoccupied.

“Mexico. You remember.”

“Mexico?” He searched among his files.

“Ron, are you feeling okay?”

“Yes, yes, I feel fine.” Harmon continued to search. His fingers moved slowly, sluggishly through the stacks of papers in his desk drawer.

“You aren’t acting fine.”

“What? Oh. Listen, I just got back.”

“Back?”

“Listen,” Harmon said, ignoring the files and closing the drawer. “Listen, Roger, you don’t want to go to Mexico.”

“I don’t?”

“Hell no. Listen, I just got back.”

“Back from what?”

Harmon sighed. “That’s a good question. It’s really back from where, but it doesn’t matter. Back from what is just as good.”

Clark said nothing.

“Listen, Roger, I’m your buddy, right?”

“Right.”

“And I’m a travel agent, right?”

“Right.”

“So listen: will you take my advice?”

Clark hesitated. “That depends.”

“Don’t go to Mexico, Roger.”

“Why?”

“Don’t go.” Harmon stared at him, his eyes distant. “Don’t go.”

“But Ron, I thought it was all set up, the plane reservations, the hotels…”

“It is. But don’t go.”

“Didn’t you tell me that the girls in Mexico City were—”

“Forget that. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“What lesson?”

“Listen,” Ron Harmon said. “I just got back from the greatest place in the world. It’s a new resort, it’s just fabulous, and in a year or so it will be the most famous vacation spot in the world, bar none. As a tourist attraction, it’s unsurpassed. It’s better than the Alhambra in Spain, better than the pyramids in Egypt, better than the Taj Mahal in India, better than anything.”

Clark said, “What is it?”

“It’s great,” Harmon said. “Absolutely great. Nothing can touch it for rest, relaxation, excitement adventure—”

“But what is it?”

“It’s a resort,” Harmon said. “A brand new resort of a type previously unknown. We’re in the middle of an age, you know. The resort age. Travel is greater than ever before in history, and resorts are booming as never before. The Aga Khan is developing Sardinia. The Costa Brava is booming. South America is just beginning; the Caribbean is expanding fantastically. But all of these places offer basically the same thing—sun, a new environment, a little action….”

“So?”

“So once in a great while, a new thing comes along. Something different. Really different And that has just happened.”

“What has?”

“A new resort which is really new and different. Really exciting, really special. I’ve just been to this resort: they invited all the travel agents out there for a week, to see what it was like. I must tell you: it’s the place to go.”

“It is?”

“No question,” Ron Harmon said. “No question about it. You’ll have a fantastic time. I did.”

“Where is this resort? What’s it like?”

“It’s on an island” Harmon said, “called San Cristobal.”

Clark said nothing. He was feeling very peculiar, as if he had eaten something raw, and it was now disagreeing with his stomach.

“San Cristobal?”

“It’s in the Caribbean,” Ron said. “A brand new island—not really, of course—but brand new in the sense of development. It’s been built up quietly by a group of Americans, to make it into the finest resort in the world. And they’ve succeeded.”

“How do you mean?”

“This island,” Ron Harmon said, “is about five square miles. It’s mostly bare coral and scrubby trees, and vegetation. But it’s been bought up, and modernized, and now….” He sighed. His eyes were staring off into space.

“And now?”

“Beautiful.”

“What’s it like?”

“Beautiful.”

“What do you do there?”

“It’s marvelous. I’ve never had a better time. I was there for a week; I could have stayed a century. I could have stayed for the rest of my life. It was beautiful.”

“What did you do there?”

“Listen, this is a place where they pay attention to detail. Everything is perfect, down to the smallest detail. The little things, like shower curtains and water faucets and silverware and headboards on the beds. Every minor detail is flawless. You’ll just adore it.”

Clark paused. “Why will I adore it?”

“Because it’s perfect. Because you can do anything and everything there. Name it, and there are the most modern, up to date—”

“Such as?”

“Anything,” Ron Harmon said, “just anything. Listen, this resort is great. It’s a whole new departure in travel and entertainment. You’ll love it”

“Why?”

Harmon frowned. “Name something?”

“Coprophagia.”

“Done!” Harmon said. “The finest, most complete facilities—”

“But coprophagia is eating fec—”

“Doesn’t matter! If human beings do it, this resort is set up to permit the most advanced, the most—”

“What?”

“Let me begin at the beginning,” Harmon said. “This resort is located in the Caribbean, right? Okay. The first thing is, nobody knows exactly where it is. It’s a huge secret. You fly to Miami, and then stop over in Nassau, and from there you take an airplane with no windows to this island. Everyone assumes it’s one of the Exeumas of the Bahamas, but nobody knows for sure. It’s a seaplane, and when you land—”

“At San Cristobal?”

“Yes. At San Cristobal, once you land there, you find yourself in the most superb, fully equipped, fantastic resort. You’ll adore it. You’ll love every minute of it.”

“But what do you do there? Tennis? Swimming? Golf? What?”

“Everything,” Ron Harmon said. “It’s just fabulous.”

Clark sat down. He stared at Harmon for a long time.

“Confirm my flight to Mexico City,” he said.

“You’re making a big mistake,” Harmon said.

“I want to go to Mexico.”

“Mexico is nothing.”

“I want to go there.”

“You’re crazy,” Harmon said, digging into his desk for the files once more.

9. THE BEST

AT EIGHT, CLARK MET Janice Connor at Orloff’s. She wore a black dress scooped as low as the brassiere engineers would allow; her hair was piled high as the hairdresser could manage; she looked very elegant, and rather precarious.

“Smashing,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said.

Orloff’s was not a restaurant Clark frequently visited. For one thing, it was expensive. For another, it was Hollywood. Looking around, he saw several noted stars. Clark disliked Hollywood heartily. He thought it unworldly, foolish, vain and self-centered. But it was also glamorous, and Janice was drinking in the glamour.

While they waited for a table, Janice told him that she had once been a UCLA cheerleader, and that she had majored in psychology; that was how she had started working for Dr. Shine. He was really an interesting man, with his theories of hypnosis and so forth. Did Clark know that he treated a lot of witches?

No, Clark said, he hadn’t known.

“Well, he does,” Janice Connor said.

They ordered dinner. The wine came; when it was poured Janice reached into her purse, took out a pill, and gulped it back, swallowing it with wine.

“What was that?”

“Headache pill. I have a headache.”

“But what was it?”

“Something new. Phenimol.”

“It’s addicting.”

“Addicting, schmaddicting,” Janice Connor said. She smiled at him and leaned forward over the table, her low-cut gown well-displayed.

“You’re not worried about it?”

“Not at all. If it was dangerous, would my doctor give it to me?”

“I don’t know,” Clark said.

“He wouldn’t,” Janice said. She smiled at him. “You’re so serious.”

“Not really.”

The appetizers came. When they finished, Janice reached in her purse for another pill, swallowed it, and gulped wine.

“What was that?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s a little embarrassing.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, I was tense, is all. That was two hundred of meprobamate.”

“Oh.”

“I take it when I’m tense.”

“Oh.”

“But it doesn’t mean anything. I mean, not personally. Frankly, I find you very attractive. Are you on something?”

“Like what?”

“You know. Some kick or other.”

“No.”

“That’s surprising,” Janice said. “I mean, I would have thought doctors would have access to all this stuff….”

“We do.”

“And you don’t take it? Listen, I was once up on dex for a week. It was unbelievable. I’ll never forget it.”

“How do you mean?”

“Have you ever made love on dex? I don’t want to embarrass you. I meant it just as, you know, a question. Have you ever made it on dex? It’s great. Fantastic.”

“Oh.”

“Just great” She reached into her purse and withdrew another pill.

As she swallowed it, she said, “That was the you-know-what.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” She dug her elbow into his ribs.

Her apartment was small but stylish, with very modern, spare furniture. He looked around. “Nervous? Here, have one of these.” She opened a small case on the coffee table, and took out a tiny gray pill. She passed him his drink. “Go ahead. Take it”

“What is it?”

“B twelve. Twenty-five mikes. Really give you a lift.”

He shook his head. “No thanks.”

“No, go on, take it.”

He looked at the pill, very small in his palm. “I don’t need it.”

“Need it? Of course you don’t need it. But it will make you feel better, all the same. Listen, you ever take ascorbic acid? Really heavy, like twenty-four hundred millis a day? You know how that makes you feel, sort of vibrant all over? Well, this is better.”

He protested for a while, but she was insistent, and finally he took it, popping it into his mouth, washing it down with the martini. She had made a very strong martini; it burned all the way down to his stomach, where it made everything very warm and glowing, very hot-pink and burning, a stomach that glowed like a beacon-light, shining through his skin and his undershirt and his shirt… She was staring at him. “Are you all right?” she asked.

It was hitting him very hard, that martini, going right from his stomach to his head, where his brain was turning a charming pink. Very, very charming. “Do you like my nipples?” she asked. He was staring at her and she was turning out the lights, the room was going dark, very slowly and peacefully dark, and he was feeling tired in a gentle, peaceful sort of way. “Isn’t that lovely?” she asked.

And he said that he was, at least he thought he said so, and then there was an elephant, a large gray elephant tromping through the high grass, where the cheetah waited, sly and muscular, the cheetah in the high grass, waiting, patiently, but the muscles tensed beneath a smooth fur coat, the muscles flexing in an absent, animal way as the elephant came closer, and closer still, moving up heavily to where the cheetah lay slinking in the high green grass.

“Well?” she said.

He heard her, from a great distance.

“What is this?” he said.

She laughed.

Her laugh echoed through the room, and through his ears, huge ears cupping the sound….

“What did you give me?” he said.

She laughed again, her voice cracking like ice on the rooftops, melting in the sun, dripping from the shingles onto the snowy ground.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she said.

“What is?”

“It?” She laughed. “Peruvian Green, they call it. It’s manufactured in Peru. It affects your mind.”

“No kidding,” he said. His voice was thick and heavy, as if he were talking submerged in a huge vat of maple syrup. A huge, thick brown vat.

This has happened to me before, he thought.

“It is ineffective,” she said, “except with alcohol. You have to drink when you take it. That starts the reaction.”

“Reaction?”

“Bubble, bubble,” she laughed. “Toil and trouble…”

Fires burning around a huge vat, the liquid boiling, the steam rising around shadowy figures. Dancing around the boiling liquid.

“Peruvian Green,” she said. “They call it supergrass.”

“Do they.”

“Yes. They do.”

“And what do they call that?” he said, looking at her.

“They call that,” she said, “what nasty little girls do to nasty little boys.”

He felt that was rather interesting, really quite worthy of further and deeper consideration, and he was about to think about it, think quite carefully and coolly about it, when he found he wasn’t thinking any more.

The world began to race for him, to pick up speed and momentum, until it was rushing like a train out of control, an airplane crashing to earth, whining and whistling in the wind, with the ground rushing up.

And then his head exploded, and he saw white pure light for several blinding instants.

And then nothing.