Golem 100

12

Gretchen looked at the stunned cipher with amused pity. “My place is no place for you,” she said. “I’m schlepping you back to your own saloon. You’ll regroup better there.”

“Le pauvre petit,” Shima muttered.

“Maybe, but you’ve got to cope now, baby. We’re involved in something tremendous. So let’s move it.”

In Shima’s penthouse, she stripped him and shoved him into the mirrored Roman tub. She ran the water as hot as her elbow could stand.

“Courtesy of CCC clout,” she said. “It’s jaunty-jolly to be loved by the Establishment.”

“You getting in too, please?” he asked.

“No time for funny business. I’m going to slug you with my coffee-cognac prescription which it could win the Nobel Peace Prize if I’d reveal the secret formula.”

“After what Ind’dni made me swallow I don’t know if I can get anything else down.”

“Wait until I give you my Golem scam. You’ll wish you were in a brain-damage slammer.”

“Are you trying to scare me more?”

“Just trying to prepare you. Soak. Enjoy. Relax. Back soon.”

When she returned with the slugged coffee, she knew he was recovering because he was sitting up in the tub with a washcloth covering his crotch. Shima, who was completely uninhibited in bed, was curiously modest out of it.

“French. Jap. Irish,” she thought. “They all caught the fig-leaf hang-up from Eve. Funny the old Bible doesn’t mention a bra.” Aloud she said, “Drink this.”

“Your secret formula?”

“Accept no substitutes.”

“It’ll ruin me for the lab.”

“You won’t be doing any smelling around. I won’t be doing any work either. We’ve got to tackle one hell of a hassle.”

She sat down on the loo facing him. “Can you listen?”

He nodded and sipped.

“And understand? This is going to be a mind-stretcher of fact and Freud.”

“I heard of him.”

“And did you hear me tell the Subadar that the key to the Hundred-Hander-Golem thing lay in the primary psychic process?”

“Yes, but I didn’t understand.”

“From the way he gave it a smooth slough I don’t think he did either. Now pay attention, Blaise. It’s one of Freud’s fundamental concepts. He called it the Psi-system. Short form, P-system.”

“Psi? You mean ESP?”

“No. The twentieth-century cats took over Psi for extrasensory perception. They probably never heard of Father Freud’s nomenclature. Anyway, the Old Man laid it down that the P-system, the primary psychic process, was at the bottom of every human being and it aimed at only one thing, the free outflow of the quantities of excitation.”

“Jeez!”

“Yeah.”

“You could explain a little.”

“Look at it this way. We all have the erotic excitation, the libido. That’s the P-system and it’s the source of all creation; literature, love, the arts, you name it.”

“Science?”

“Of course, science too. It’s a powerhouse of driving energy and it’s always trying to collect life together into larger unities. That’s the way a shrink describes the creative process. Boy meets girl and they collect to create love and a family. Scientist like you collects chemicals to create perfumes. I collect data to create solutions. All this is libido… psychic energy in action. Tremendous! Now dig this, man: the bee-ladies pool their energies to create a larger entity, a collection of the hive libido, the Golem¹⁰⁰.”

“How?”

“How? Well… think of it like… Yes, like a pastry bag for icing. You mix all the ingredients, beat and cook ‘em, transfer to the forcing bag and squeeze. The icing comes out of the spout end. Well, mix the ladies’ libidos, beat and cook, transfer to the ritual forcing bag, and squeeze. Out comes the Golem.”

“But I—Wait. Is the Golem real or just a shadow projection?”

“What’s real? If a tree falls in a forest and no one’s around to hear it, does it make a real sound? In other words, must reality be reciprocal?”

“Damn if I know.”

“Nobody does.”

“But look, Gretchen, the Golem made those ghastly attacks. That makes it real. Only it was a different thing each time. That makes it unreal.”

“Only in our terms.”

“Then which is it?”

“Both. It’s a quasi-reality; Adam in the second hour of creation; shapeless and without a soul. We need a brand-new vocabulary to describe it. It’s a protean that can assume any shape it wants.”

“Then what makes it want a particular shape?”

“Ah! I was hoping you’d get around to that. Now we get down to the nitty-gritty which has to be described in terms of personality and persona profiles. You know the difference?”

“I think so. Personality is what you really are inside. Persona is how you show yourself to the world.”

“Right on. Persona is the mask we wear. Like this.” She snatched up the washcloth cover and dropped it back before Shima could holler. As he adjusted it, he grumbled, “Women! Let them get intimate with you, and they lose all sense of decency.”

“No, we just drop the persona mask, is all. If you’re strong enough to beef, you must be feeling better. Let’s get down to the facts. I’ll take the horrors in sequence.”

“No details, I beg. Once is enough for a sissy.”

“No details; just personality profiles; what was inside the victims. That girl in the stock exchange and the Golem computer mechanic…”

“The girl who wanted to be infected with genius?”

“Yes. Who was she?”

“How should I know? Ind’dni didn’t give names. He didn’t even give descriptions.”

“But in personality she was a look-alike for another girl. Can you think who?”

“Well… She was dumb and didn’t want to be.”

“Exactly. And who’d I tell you about that was dumb and didn’t want to be?”

“Who’d you tell me that… ?” Shima thought hard and at last twigged. “My God! The hive. Yes. That blonde dancer with her hair like a helmet.”

“Mary Mixup. Right.”

“Was the victim actually Mary? The one you met?”

“No, just the same type. Nobody’s really unique; we all have personality dupes and/or physical look-alikes. Now, the second outrage in the Theaterthon with the Golem actor?”

Shima recognized the pattern she was shaping. “Of course. Sarah Heartburn, the actress manqué.”

“The girl who took sanctuary in the Church of Saint Jude?”

“That well-bred one who objects to five-letter words. Miss Pot, is it?”

“No, Miss Priss, as in prisspot. The distinguée hostess in the Freeport Restaurant?”

“Queen Regina, of course. And the girl at the rallye assaulted by the Golem lesbian. She was the Yenta Calienta type. But who was the GoFer in Studio 2222?”

“Nellie Gwyn.”

“Ildefonsa? Impossible? Ildy’s a looker; you said so yourself. That GoFer was a crow.”

“But the same personality.”

“How d’you know?”

“Wait for it. Wait for it. Last of all, that career-type in the Therpool?”

“The one Ind’dni thinks I assaulted?”

“Yes, because she’s the one who identified you.”

“I can’t understand how she made such a mistake.”

“It wasn’t any mistake. The Golem did look like you.”

“How could it?”

“Because the career gal was me.”

“You!”

“Me, personalitywise. That’s what opened it up for me.” Gretchen nodded with assurance, then leaned forward intently. “Now try to grasp this, Blaise. It’ll be tough because we’re past facts and into the psychic process of the Phasmaworld.”

“Your Subworld. I’ll try.”

“Given: a plastic, protean creature making appearances in different human shapes. Given: seven of its victims, each a personality match for one of the bee-ladies.”

“So far you’ve got the left-hand side of an equation. What comes after the equals sign?”

“Each of the victims was attacked by a creature created by the outflow of a bee-lady’s libido and shaped by that libido.”

“Oh Jesus!”

“Oh yes.”

“You’re asking me to buy your phasma fantasy.”

“I’m not selling you anything. Just look at the facts. Mary Mixup yearns for a man who’ll make her smart. Sarah Heartburn—a dynamic artist-type. Miss Priss—a holy, well-bred lover. Regina—Lord Nelson. Nellie Gwyn—a King Charles the Second stud. That’s how I knew the GoFer was Ildefonsa; the Golem was carrying a King Charles spaniel. Yenta—a butch bulldyke. Me—you. Q.E.D.”

“What about those twins with the Russian names? Why were they left out?”

“Maybe they weren’t. Maybe the report hasn’t reached. Ind’dni—or the outrages went unnoticed, like hundreds more in this lunatic Guff which takes horrors for granted.”

“But—”

But there was no interrupting Gretchen. “You know about the id, the deep reservoir of libido energy in every man, a hellhole of primal drives. Sure you do. Maybe you can remember that line from Hamlet? Bloody, bawdy villain! Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain! That’s the id buried in the basement of the human animal; you, me, all of us.”

“We can’t all be monsters,” Shima protested.

“Deep down inside, in our Underworld, we are. Up here, at the top of the iceberg, we censor and control it; but what happens when that brute beast in us escapes control, breaks out of the cage, and runs wild? Then you have Golem¹⁰⁰.”

“How does it break out of the cage?”

“Sharpen a wit, baby. The bee-ladies get together in Regina’s hive. They play witchcraft games. Of course they never succeed in raising the Devil because he doesn’t exist. That’s just folklore.”

Shima nodded.

“But their ids combine to generate a different demon. There isn’t any inferno, but there is an Infraworld, and our remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless ids live down there. The ladies’ libidos merge down there, and that’s the genesis of the Golem. It takes the shape of any one or all of some of their unconscious savageries and appears in our conscious world to ravish and slaughter without sense or reason… just savage pleasure. Erotic libido and death libido.”

“You’re claiming that the bottom line with the bee-ladies is the Golem¹⁰⁰?”

“Yes. It’s the gut-reality. Energy eruption.”

“Why the bee-ladies in particular? Why don’t we all generate Golems down there?”

“Three little words. Catalyst.”

“Holy Saints! The Promethium.”

“It’s a hell of a thing to cope with, Blaise, but until that radioactive Pm got into the act the world has never been confronted with the gut eight-ninths of the iceberg.”

Shima sighed. “What a rotten thing to happen to a beautiful legend,” he said sadly. “Prometheus, the Fire-Bringer, teacher of the arts of life, friend and benefactor of Man. And now look at the foul fire he’s generating in those filthy women!”

“They’re still nice ladies, Blaise.”

“No. How can they be?”

“They don’t know what they’re doing.”

“There has to be a conscious clue.”

“They don’t even know their gut-drives.”

“We all know that we have them in this day and age.”

“The fact, but not the hideous details. Our conscious can’t bring itself to examine the primal ferocity. That’s why people have to suffer through psychoanalysis for years before they can come face to face with their bottom line.”

“Have you come face to face with yours?”

“I doubt it. I know you haven’t.”

“Me?”

“You. Do you know what primal passion drives you into the personality of Mr. Wish?”

Shima was stunned.

“But you are driven, aren’t you? And yet you’re a nice guy… As nice as the bee-ladies.”

“Oh Jesus! Christ Jesus! Then Ind’dni is right. I am a Golem.”

“Easy, baby. You’re not alone. Most of us are Golems, one way or another. The rare exceptions get sainted. So cool it and I’ll whip up another slug of the secret formula, prized by the cognoscenti, and famed in song and story.”

She went into the galley which was so rarely used that it was almost as sterile as Shima’s laboratory at CCC. Gretchen’s secret formula was the extravagant equivalent of two weeks in a spa: coffee, butter, sugar, egg yolks, cream, cognac. While she was heating and churning the hellbrew in a double boiler, her sight began to fade.

“Hey! Open your eyes,” she called cheerfully. “I’m going blind.”

He didn’t answer. Her primary vision failed altogether, and she was left with the secondary kaleidoscope. “Damn. He’s fallen asleep.” She felt her way out of the galley to the bath. “Blaise! Wake up!”

No answer. She groped around the tub. It was empty. She felt the tile floor with her palms. It was wet. “He’s getting dressed. Mr. Modesty!” She went into the bedroom. “Blaise?” No answer. In the lounge she called, “Blaise Shima! Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Nothing. And nothing from the terrace except the Guff’s distant pandemonium.

“Damn the man. He’s funked out and gone to hide in his lab. Patience, Gretchen. Patience.” She allowed an impatient half hour for traveltime and called CCC. No, Dr. Shima’s laboratory did not answer. No, Dr. Shima was not to be found in the CCC complex. She called the Organic Nursery. No, Dr. Shima was not dining there. Anyway, Dr. Shima always had his meals delivered.

She called the stock exchange, Theaterthon, the Church of St. Jude, the Freeport Restaurant, Station WGA, the Sheep Meadow racetrack, the Therpool. No one answering to the name or description of Blaise Shima. Now genuinely alarmed she thought of contacting Salem Burne or the P.L.O.; instead she settled for the Guff Precinct Complex and asked for Subadar Ind’dni.

“And are you calling from your mystic Subworld, Miz Nunn?” he inquired. “You did not give me to understand that it had communication with reality.”

“Mr. Ind’dni, I’m in trouble.”

“The identical same, madame, or more so?”

“More so. Dr. Shima has disappeared.”

“Has he indeed? Best to describe event.”

After Gretchen had finished a carefully edited account, Ind’dni sighed. “Yes. To be understood. Most probably Dr. Shima found your fantastic conclusions about Hundred-Hander situation as difficult to stomach as did I. He is in hiding from you and has my sympathy. But he must not leave the Guff in his flight. An A.P.B. must be broadcast.”

“Not an A.P.B., Subadar!”

“Alas, what else can I do? However, I promise this: every effort will be made to keep taint of scandal from media. Code Nemo will be used.”

“What? Code Nemo?”

“So. You have never heard of Code Nemo?” She could sense Ind’dni’s internal smile. “I did tell you that I do not lack resources, Miz Nunn.”

After contact was broken, Gretchen muttered, “To hell with his A.P.B. and Code Nemo. My staff can lick his staff anytime.”

She managed her way out of the penthouse, safed it, and got down to the street, where full sight returned. When she arrived at her apartment, it was in time for a dramatic tableau. Her staff was assembled, gathered around Shima, staring at him and restraining him. Shima was stark naked and struggling politely.

“Blaise!” she exclaimed.

“The name is Wish, my dear. You may call me Mr. Wish.” He gave her the glassy smile.

She shook her head like an animal trying to dislodge an infuriating fly.

“He just crunched in, Miz Nunn. Security downstairs says he asked for you by name.”

“By name? He asked for Gretchen Nunn?”

“No, Miz. Just ‘Gretch.’ He said that Gretch from the Guff lived here and knew Mr. Wish. Security thought it was one of our codes and let him up.”

“You may release me,” Mr. Wish smiled. “I have nothing to grant any of you.”

She understood. “No, none of us. You can let him go. He’s harmless.”

“Miz Nunn, why does he call himself Mr. Wish? We know he’s—”

“He isn’t anybody you ever saw or heard of. Mr. Wish was never here. Understood? Thank heaven I can trust you. Now out, all of you.”

When the study was cleared she closed the door and stood contemplating the courteous Mr. Wish. “No, none of us. You poor schnook, you’ve been backtracking on your own death-wish trail. It’s really hit you hard, hasn’t it? Went right over the brink into the deeps.”

“I remember you, Gretch,” Mr. Wish smiled. “I tried to help you once. Do you remember me?”

“You’re the one that’s got to be helped, Blaise,” Gretchen murmured. “There’s an A.P.B. out, and if you’re picked up in this character… Like down will come baby, cradle, and all.” She got a giant bath towel and tossed it across his lap. “Here, wrap this around.” Then she sat and breathed deep. “Now how the hell am I going to bring you out of it? Fake a suicide for Mr. Wish? What good would that do? Chem-shots? I wouldn’t know what to prescribe. What you need is a psychic shock, and it’s got to be homeopathic, but what, what, what?”

Mr. Wish adjusted his toga and said, “I don’t think I could help the one I was following anyway.”

“Not unless you catch up with him.”

“It’s not that. I can’t find my aids. I don’t seem to have them with me.”

Gretchen’s smile was exasperated. “Did you try your pockets?”

“I must have left them somewhere. Locked up, of course. Can’t be too careful with lethal modules. I wonder where.”

“Happy to say I can’t help, Mr. Wish.”

“It doesn’t matter, my dear. I’d have to find the key first.”

“Oh sure. The key first, of course, and then the lethal modules which—” Gretchen broke off abruptly. It took her a full five seconds to acknowledge her appalling idea. She began to tremble and rock, shaking her head. “I can’t. I won’t. There’d be no enduring that.” And all the while she knew that she could, would, and have to endure. It took long minutes to compose herself. She went into her bedroom, got something from the night table, and clutched it in her palm. Then, smiling almost as glassily as Mr. Wish, she called Ildefonsa Lafferty.

“Nellie? BB calling. No, not from the hive; my own place. Nell, I’ve got a crise psychologique and I—No, love, it’s not more intellect; just French for something heavy. My problem’s here now, and I don’t want him to know what I’m talking about. Yes, it’s a he. I can’t handle him. I think you can because it’s one of your specialties. Can you come over right away? No, love, no hints. You’ll see for yourself when you get here. Thanks, Nell.” She broke the connection. “All right, Blaise. I’m going to unlock that drawer.”

This was Gretchen Nunn’s professional protocol. She greeted distinguished clients at the entrance to her Oasis. She met the fringe celebrities at the impressive door of her apartment with her staff in attendance. The bread-and-butter customers were ushered into her workshop where she was seated, working while she waited. (Mills Copeland, chairman of CCC, would have been deeply offended, had he known.) Gretchen met Ildefonsa Lafferty at the door of her study and ushered her in.

“Thanks for coming to the rescue, Nell. This one’s a bummer.”

Ildefonsa was blazing in lettuce sequins. “Who could resist the tease, BB? Of course it was a tease. I’ve got your number. No matter what you do, you’ve always got a second intention.”

“I protest, Nell.”

“Why deny it? That’s the grabby part of your tease. I ask myself what she’s up to now, and I have to find out.”

“I swear it’s a straight rescue.”

“Like I’m supposed to believe you? Is that thing your crise psychologique?” She indicated the glassy Mr. Wish with a hip.

“That’s it.”

“You said ‘he.’ You didn’t say a null in a toga.”

“He’s in shock and he’s got to be stung out of it… Back to normal.”

“What’s so hot about normal? Why not let him enjoy?”

“I need his evidence-verbal for a case.”

“Why call me?”

“Because you know something I don’t know.”

“What, in particular?”

“How to sting men.”

“Well, I never yanced a zombie, but there always has to be a first.”

Gretchen smiled with thin lips. “If that’s the way it has to be, feel free.”

“Is there any other way?” Ildefonsa strolled to Mr. Wish, inspected him casually, then bent suddenly and looked hard. “My God! I can’t believe it. This is Hero.”

“Hero? It’s Dr. Blaise Shima. What hero?”

“Hero, short for Hiroshima. Chase him into bed, BB, and you’ll find out why.”

Gretchen kept her mouth shut.

“So that was your second intention,” Ildefonsa said. “What happened to him?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I can’t handle him.”

Ildefonsa prowled around Shima. “Well, well, Hero. Long time no connect. Miss me, stud?”

“The name is Wish, my dear. You may call me Mr. Wish.”

“God knows, you were a maiden’s wish come true, stud.” Over her shoulder, Ildefonsa threw, “He doesn’t know me?”

“He doesn’t know anyone.”

“Including himself?”

“He thinks he’s some character he invented named Wish.”

“So you want to get rid of that character?”

“That’s the op. Bring him back to himself.”

“Any ideas?”

“You were my only idea. I thought, ‘Nell is the one to make him conscious.’”

“Thanks, but my usual op is knocking them unconscious. I don’t know about the retro ploy. Might be interesting. You want him to remember he’s Shima?”

“That’s the scam.”

“Hmmm…” Ildefonsa meditated while Mr. Wish beamed up at her, looking like a pleasant Roman senator. Then, “Hey, Hero, remember this?” She began to sing in her peanut-whistle voice:

My mother said I never should

Prance with a yanceman in the wood.

If I did, she would say,

You naughty girl to disobey.

Disobey.

Disobey.

On your husband’s holiday.

Ildefonsa giggled. “You always dug that, Hero. Remember? You used to make me sing and dance it.”

“The name is Wish, my dear. Mr. Wish.”

“He’s really spaced, BB. That number could always hustle him into the water gap. Hero believed I was the pure type singing smut I didn’t understand.”

“Way out.”

“Just typical. He never knew the score. You think I should try the dance bit? It’s a strip.”

“Why not? Wait. Wear this.”

Ildefonsa looked at the cabochon in Gretchen’s palm. “What is it?”

Gretchen felt a little better. “It’s an uncut diamond.”

“You want me to wear it?”

“Please.”

“What on? I’ll be stripped.”

“Wear it in your navel.”

“For God’s—There? How?”

“It’s mounted on skinstick.”

“Why do I wear it?”

“It’s the key to a locked drawer.”

“Whose?”

“His.”

“Sounds like he’s acquired some kinky kicks since I knew him.”

“He has. No, Nell, don’t let him see you put it in place; it’s got to be flashed on him suddenly. Use my bedroom.”

Ildefonsa nodded and went through the door that Gretchen opened for her. She came out in a few moments, making sure that the door remained open. “Groovy bed,” she commented approvingly. “It could turn therapy into a thrill. Those mirrors! All countdown now.”

“Should I leave you alone together?”

“Why? Maybe you’ll learn something useful.”

“There’s always room for improvement,” Gretchen agreed through her teeth.

Ildefonsa took position before Mr. Wish and began to sing and dance rather clumsily. (“Rotten coordination in the vertical.”) The lettuce-sequin apparat was designed to break apart in convenient sections (“But not designed with dancing in mind.”) which Ildefonsa cast aside any which way until she was stripped down to her glowing blush skin for the final flash. She turned slowly, displaying every thrust of her plummy body, flashed and held the pose before Mr. Wish. Gretchen choked back a growl.

The diamond was close and level with his eyes. Mr. Wish stared at it. Then his eyes dropped to the mons veneris, lifted to the breasts, and at last to Ildefonsa’s face. He turned pale.

“But… but you’re Ildy,” he faltered. His eyes dropped to the cabochon. “Why… What are… Why are you wearing Gretchen’s diamond?” He arose slowly and looked around in bewilderment. “I’ve lost connection.”

Ildefonsa held out her plummy arms to him. “Come on, stud. We’ll reconnect.”

“But it… I… It’s not then. It’s now. Now.” His voice strengthened. “God almighty, what am I doing with you, Ildy? Here? You like this. Wearing Gretchen’s diamond. Giving me that old Ipanema gig. Christ! I put you away a year ago.”

“I took her out of the drawer, Blaise,” Gretchen said quietly.

He shook his head slowly. “You? Did this? To me?”

“I had to bring you back.”

“But… But the diamond?”

“I asked her to wear it.”

“Why?”

“That was the key.”

“What did you bring me back from?”

“Mr. Wish.”

“Oh Jesus! Jesus God!”

“It’s all right, Hero,” Ildefonsa said soothingly. She ran her hands under the toga. “Everything’s all right now. You’re back. I’m back. We’re both back where we started. Come on, stud.” She coaxed him toward the bedroom.

Shima looked into her face. Her eyes were melting. He looked at Gretchen. Her eyes were steady. He looked from one to the other again, then turned Ildefonsa gently and started her toward the bedroom. He seemed to be following but it was only to step out of the toga which he draped around her shoulders. “Farewells should be forever,” he said.

Ildefonsa turned in astonishment. Shima crossed to Gretchen. “What now?” he asked.

“Thanks for the coronation.”

“It was no contest.”

“It was for me.”

“What now?” he repeated.

“Now? Your lab for a Pm trip. We’ve got to visit the Phasmaworld.” She called over his shoulder to the amazed Ildefonsa. “Your count was short, Nellie. With me you have to watch out for a third intention. You can keep the diamond.”