Golem 100

5

So Gretchen Nunn began assembling proof poz. She rented the professional beggar’s pitch alongside the Oasis entrance for a week. Shima seen twice a day but no contact. She hired the Glacial Army Revival Band and sang hymns with it before the Oasis. No success, and the Army complained that her rendition of “Where You Beez Come God’s Big Freeze?” had cost them a thirty percent drop in contributions.

She finally made the connection after she’d promoted a messenger job with the Organic Nursery. The first three dinners she delivered to the penthouse, she came and went unnoticed. Shima was entertaining a series of girls, all scrubbed and sparkling with gratitude and luxuriating in the welcome warmth. When she made the next delivery he was alone, and he noticed her for the first time.

“Well, well, well,” he smiled. “And how long has this been going on?”

“Sir?”

“Since when has the Nursery been using girls for delivery boys?”

“I am a delivery person, sir,” Gretchen answered with dignity. “I’ve been working for the Organic Nursery since the first of the month, sir.”

“Strike that ‘sir’ bit, will you? I’m no dignitary.”

“Thank you s— Doctor Shima.”

“How the devil d’you know I’ve got a doctorate?”

She’d slipped. He was listed at the Oasis and the Nursery simply as, B. SHIMA—PENTHOUSE, and she should have remembered. The man was lightning-quick. As usual, she made the mistake work for her. “I know all about you, sir. Dr. Blaise Shima, Princeton, M.I.T., Dhow Chemical. Chief Scent Chemist at CCC. Publications: Aromatic Hydrocarbons, Volatile Oils and Dye Chemis—”

“Have a heart,” he broke in. “You sound like Who’s Who.”

“That’s where I read it, Dr. Shima.”

“You looked me up in that dumb catalogue? Why, for God’s sake?”

“You’re the first famous person I’ve ever met.”

“What gave you the lunatic idea that I’m famous, which I’m not?”

She gestured around. “I knew you had to be famous to live like this.”

“Very flattering, but it’s my decorator who’s famous. So you can read, can you?”

“And write, sir.”

“Unusual for the Guff. What’s your name, love?”

“Gretchen, sir.”

“Watch that ‘sir,’ Gretchen. What’s your last name, love?”

“People in my class don’t have last names, s— doctor. It doesn’t seem fair.”

“And a social philosopher, too. Most unusual. Will you be the delivery b— person tomorrow, Gretchen?”

“Tomorrow is my day off, doctor.”

“Perfect. Bring dinner for two.”

So the affair began, and Gretchen Nunn discovered, much to her astonishment, that she was enjoying it tremendously. This was not the first time she had ever used pleasure for business, but this was the first time that she herself had been genuinely pleasured. She made a mental note to examine the psychodynamics of her reaction at some future date.

Blaise was indeed a brilliant, charming young man; always entertaining, always considerate, always generous. With affection and gratitude for the novelty she was giving him he gave her (remember, he believed she came from the dregs of the Guff) one of his prized bijoux, the five-carat diamond he’d synthesized for his doctoral dissertation at Dhow. She responded with equal style; she wore the cabochon in her navel and promised that it was for his eyes only.

Quite as a matter of course he insisted that this Guff flower scrub up each time she visited, which was a bore. In her income bracket, she could afford more black-market water than CCC’s generous allowance to their pet. However, one convenience was that she could quit her job at Organic and attend to other contracts while she was investigating the Shima problem.

She usually left his penthouse before midnight and always staked out across the road from his Oasis until two. She picked him up this night as he was leaving a half hour after her. She’d studied the Salem Burne report and knew what to expect. She overtook him quickly and spoke in an agitated voice, using the lowest Guff diction which is blurted without pause or punctuation, “Hey man mistuh mistuh man mistuh!”

He stopped and looked at her kindly, completely without recognition. He was almost unrecognizable himself. The bright, alert, playful Shima was gone. This was a glassy creature who moved and spoke with the phlegm of a tortoise.

“Yes, my dear?”

“If yuh gone this way man kin I come too man mistuh I scared out late mistuh.”

“Certainly, my dear.”

“Thanks mistuh I gone home yuh gone home man?”

“Not exactly.”

“Where yuh gone to nothin’ bad is yuh man I doan want no part a bad mistuh.”

“Nothing bad, my dear. Not to worry.”

“Then what yuh doin’ man I like mean what huh?”

He smiled secretly. “I’m following something.”

“Yuh follow somebody who?”

“No. Something.”

“Like what kine something mistuh?”

“Inquisitive, aren’t you. What’s your name?”

“Gretch like for Gretchen how they Guff say you man?”

“Me?”

“Got a name mistuh?”

“Name? Of course. I—I’m— Yes, I’m Wish. You may call me Mr. Wish. That’s my name.” He hesitated for a moment and then said, “I must turn left here.”

“Thas dig Mistuh Wish I left here too man.”

She could see that under the glassy exterior all his senses were prickling, so she reduced her prattle to a low background. She stayed with him as he turned and twisted through streets, alleys and lanes, always assuring him that this was her way home, too. She doubted whether he was really aware of her until, at a rather sinister-looking refuse dump, he surprised her by giving her a fatherly pat and cautioning her to wait while he explored its safety. Mr. Wish disappeared and never reappeared.

“I replicated this experience with Dr. Shima seven times,” Ms. Nunn reported to the CCC board. “They were all significant. Each time he revealed a little more to diagnosis without realizing it. Burne was right. It is a case of fugue, and a classic one.”

“And the cause, Miz Nunn?”

“Pheromone trails.”

“What? Pheromone? What’s that, please?”

“I’d thought you gentlemen would be acquainted with the term, being in the chemistry business, among others.”

“But we’re not scientists, Miz Nunn.”

“Quite. I see I’ll have to explain. It’ll take some time so I beg that you do not require me to describe the induction and deduction that led to my conclusion.”

“Agreed.”

“Thank you, Mr. Copeland. Now surely you’ve all heard of hormones, the internal secretions which excite other parts of the body into action. Pheromones are external secretions which excite other individuals into action. It’s a mute chemical language.”

“Could you be a little more explicit, Miz Nunn? This is rather difficult for us.”

“Certainly. The best example of the pheromone language is the ant. Place a lump of sugar somewhere outside the nest. A forager will come across it, feed, and return to the nest. Within an hour the entire ant colony will be single-filing to and from the sugar, following the pheromone trail first laid down by the discoverer.”

“Consciously?”

“Not known. It may be as deliberate as the bee-dance, which indicates direction and distance of food, or it may be quite unconscious. All we do know is that the pheromone is a compelling stimulant.”

“Remarkable! And Dr. Shima?”

“Is compelled to follow human pheromone trails.”

“What? You mean we leave them as well?”

“Indeed yes. It’s accepted that women leave unconscious pheromone trails which excite and attract men.”

“Amazing!”

“It’s been established for some time. So now, perhaps, you can understand that your Dr. Shima goes into fugue and is forced to follow certain pheromone trails.”

“Ah! An outré aspect of The Nose. It makes sense, Miz Nunn. It really does. What trails is he compelled to follow? Women?”

“No. The death wish.”

“What!”

“The death wish.”

“Miz Nunn!”

“Why the surprise, sir? Surely you’re all aware of this aspect of the human psyche. Many people suffer from an unconscious but powerful urge to self-destruct. Some psychiatrists claim that we all do. Apparently this leaves a pheromone trail which Shima senses… I would guess only in certain cases… and is forced to follow.”

“And then?”

“Apparently he grants the wish.”

“Impossible!”

“Preposterous!”

“What’s she saying?”

“That the gook grants the death wish. He kills the ones that want to die. Lethal-One.”

“I do, gentlemen.”

“Apparently! Apparently!” the chairman stormed. “Dr. Shima? Murder? Ridiculous! I demand proof positive of such a monstrous accusation.”

“Very well, you’ll get it, sir. There are one or two things I must wrap up with him before I close the contract, and in the course of that, I’m afraid he’s in for a shock.”

* * *

“This is cruel and unusual punishment to my hands,” Mary Mixup complained. “Did they really have to push needles with their finners in ancient days?”

“Aye, they DID! But the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense. Hamlet. ACT V, sc. 1. Let’s quit.”

“I’m with you, Sarah. I’m fed up with this number.”

“Me too, Yenta. Let’s take a vote. All in favor of dropping the quilting bee? Hands, please. Not you, Pi. Six out of eight. Carried.” Nellie Gwyn grinned. “Oodgedye and Udgedye recusing, as usual.”

“We’re not recusing. We’re dissenting.”

“So now what, Regina?” Priss asked.

“Oh dear. I’m out of entertainment ideas. Perhaps another call to Lucifer?”

“Why not?” Yenta grumbled. “Maybe we can get him to finish this dreary quilt.”

“Regina. Ladies. Attention. Red-hot news. My Droney says we’re calling up the Devil all wrong.”

“We are? How, Nell?”

“Droney says we’re in the twenty-second century. We have to drop the medieval schtik and communicate in a modern language.”

“After all our memorizing! Why?”

“He says maybe Lucifer hears us but when he tries to return our call, he goes to the wrong century.”

“That’s an idea. Fiends can make mistakes, too.”

“Sure. They’re only human.”

“What language does he suggest, Nell?”

“Computer binary. Droney programmed the whole bit for us. I’ve got it here. Look…”

2,047

1,799

2,015

1,501

1,501

1,025

1,501

1,501

2,015

1,799

2,047

“What in the name of— He has to be guffing.”

“No, ladies, this is madly modern magic. The computer automatically translates the decimal into binary oneses and zeroses which form a sinister, evil, dirty rotten cross which no self-respecting demon can resist.”

“What do you think, Regina?”

“It’s worth a try, but I don’t think we should just sit around cold. Let’s give it the full treatment. We’ll put the kitchen computer in the pentacle and kneel around and really want it to happen. Pi-girl! Bring the lights and the smells and the computer.”

* * *

11111111111

11100000111

11111011111

10111011101

10111011101

10000000001

10111011101

10111011101

11111011111

11100000111

11111111111

“My goodness! Will you look at that tape!”

“Better make that ‘My badness,’ Priss.”

“But all I see is ones and zeros.”

“Yes, that’s the binary, Mary, but look at the design the zeros are making.”

“Why! It’s the wicked cross from the Seal of Solomon; the one we started to quilt.”

“Right. My Droney’s a genius.”

“Will it really summon Satan?”

“If a computer can’t, nothing can.”

“Shush, ladies. We must be worshipful. No whispering, please.”

“The computer can’t hear us, Regina.”

“But perhaps Lucifer is listening. Now be devout, you witches. Want! Yearn! Will!”