Psychoshop

SIX · MACAVITY'S SMILE

When we wished in we were whisked out, which disconcerted me sufficiently that I applied fingertip pressure to La Shipton's wrist as a signal to put my instruction on hold.

In a moment, the scene was recognizable, though it was hardly the parlor of the Luogo Nero. At a table beneath a tree in front of a house the Hatter and the March Hare were having tea, a dormant Dormouse between them, a little blond-haired girl at table's end to their right, Adam across from the Hatter and chatting.

On seeing the direction of his companions' gazes, Adam rose, turning, smiling, nodding toward us. Behind him, the Hatter also got to his feet—tall, familiar—and when he doffed his old-fashioned hat to the ladies his shock of white hair completed the picture.

"My associate, Medusa, whom you just met in passing," Adam said, "is accompanied by Miz Ursula Shipton, a prospective client, and my other associate, Alfred Noir. Friends, permit me to introduce Sir Professor Doctor Bertrand Russell."

"Let us dispense with Teutonic preambling," the man said, showing us a smile. "Happy to meet you, all of you. Adam has not only dealt with the problem I brought him, but has shown me a good time in answer to a secret wish, and handed me a thorny dilemma involving ideals and practicalities." He turned toward Adam once more. "I say, no matter how you try to keep it out it may still find its way in," he said.

"But that argues against your pacifistic principles," Adam responded, "to say that it must develop such a capac­ity merely from a series of contacts with things human."

"As the days dwindle down and I continue to regard the world about me, probably in worse shape than I found it," the other answered, "I fear that this—this capacity—could be real, though I shall argue against it to my final breath. I am just saying, Don't take the chance."

Adam leaned over and picked up a rod, which I saw to be more than his height in length when he held it upright. It was colored in swirls like a candy cane, and when he thumped it the ground shook, as if he were striking it with a sledgehammer.

"'Be cheerful, sir'" said he, '"our revels now are ended.'"

The March Hare took out his watch and looked at it. Then he dipped it into his tea and looked at it again. He rose and turned and entered the house, to be followed moments later by Alice and the yawning Dormouse.

"'These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits, and are melted into air, into thin air," he continued, "'and, like the baseless fabric of this vision, the cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself, yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve and, like this insubstantial pageant faded, leave not a rack behind.'"

The house, the tree, the table and all its ware, yea, the sky itself, had faded as he spoke, leaving us in Adam's par­lor. Lord Russell nodded. "'We are such stuff as dreams are made on/" he said, "'and our little life is rounded with a sleep.' But will you break your staff, sir? Will you break your staff?"

In response, Adam raised the rod up over his head, hands far out near its ends, and for a moment I thought he was simply holding it there. Then his back began to broaden and I realized that he was exerting enormous pressure upon the thing. His jacket split down the middle and moments later his shirt tore, too, revealing cables of alien musculature beneath his bronze hide, as the bar yielded and bent. With a twist he had it into an S-shape. Then with additional pres­sure it became a figure 8.

"I'm not sure about that answer, Adam," Lord Russell stated, "but thank you for your help as well as your cour­tesy." Then he, too, was gone.

Adam moved a few paces and leaned the bent rod against the wall. Rising, he seemed to notice the condition of his garments and he grinned at me. Then he faded, except for the grin, which lingered a while.

"How'd he do that?" I asked Glory.

"You mean the fabric of his vision? Left the door to the multi-purpose room open," she said. "It'll spill out if you do that when the mechanism's activated."

"Curiouser and curiouser," I said, picking up the gaudy fig­ure 8 and satisfying myself that it was real steel. "And the cat's last trick, as in 'Fade to smile'?"

"He was just playing with a side effect of the place," she explained. "Here, inside, the singularity allows you to teleport from place to place. We almost never use it, though. It's easier to walk across the room and pick up a book than to focus the concentration, the will, and the image of place to teleport twenty feet after it. He has a flair for the dramatic, though."

"I've noticed. Still, how'd he manage the lingering smile part?"

"Practice. He's got great control. He's very good at everything he does."

"I've noticed that, too."

And he was suddenly with us once more, standing on the other side of the sofa. He had on a fresh white shirt with his slacks. "Yet are there other revels to attend," he remarked.

"I hope you took sufficient rest," Glory stated.

"Indeed I did, and my youth is renewed like the eagle," he replied.

"Whatever did Lord Russell want to trade?" I asked.

"Halitosis," he answered. "You see, he has a young girl­friend and she recently told him he has bad breath. He tried every sort of mouthwash he could locate, and when none of them did the trick he grew desperate. Then he remembered something Alfred North Whitehead had once told him about this place, and he decided to give us a try."

"And you took his breath away in return for a mad party?"

"I got him to throw in a philosopher's advice, too."

"About life, of course. Always nice to collect a few more opinions."

"About the Iddroid," he said. "He's not sure that our bowdlerization of the Library of Congress will do much good. He thinks that the capacity we are trying to avoid may be built right into that primitive collective unconscious Gomi brought us—which surprised me. It seems to go against much of his general thinking. Still, I'd asked him to speculate as wildly as he would, and he may have found the nature of the project somewhat overwhelming."

He moved around to the front of the sofa.

"It did seem as if you'd shaken him somewhat," I said as he advanced, and I brushed against Ursula Shipton, giving her her cue.

She uttered a cry, rushed forward, and struck him twice, which took considerable courage after she'd seen what he could do to a steel rod. But she was a game lady.

Then she shrieked again and collapsed, rolling back slightly in my direction. I had followed her and I stooped immediately and raised her in my arms. I bore her to the sofa.

As I did, she whispered, "His is the power of the cat. I've seen him, like at the Last Judgment. He has all of humanity in a box and he's pushing it into the flames. Maybe he really is the Dev—"

"I arranged a little demonstration," I said loudly, "in return for the one you provided me. Scrying by aggression. Go ahead and tell the gentleman something of your vision."

"Nine lives," she said, "and eight hunters to cut their number. The best is yet to be but closes fast. Soon will be the time when you may not land on your feet."

Adam ran a hand through his hair and smiled.

"Rocky," he said. "Yes, you've got it all right." He moved near, leaned and touched her brow. "Let me know when you're up to it and I'll run you through my mall."

"Mall?" she said, eyes widening as she sat up. "I'm ready already."

He took her hand and they headed for the Hellhole.

". . . And a good time was had by all," I said. "Excuse me, Glory. Nature summons."

I made my way to the John fast, closed the door behind me, and stood there visualizing myself at the small room's other end. I summoned my will and desire. Then suddenly I was there. I could do it, too. I teleported back, then back again. I would have to master this, get it down to a reflex, the way Adam had it. I could see that I would have to visit the John often, to practice.

I considered my reflection in the mirror. "Any further instructions?" I asked.

"Not yet," he replied. "Just hang in there. Timing is everything."

I returned to the parlor to discover Glory in conversa­tion with Ashton Ash, no longer an IT, who now wore Levi's, expensive sneakers, a black Italian sport shirt, and a light leather jacket. Sunglasses hung at his belt in an embossed case. He smiled when he saw me.

"I was just saying that I've given it a trial run and it works fine," he told me. "I was wondering whether you people might help me to meet some nice girls now— perhaps ones who've been clients themselves. Thought we might be a little more sympathetic toward each other. Old school tie sort of thing."

"I'm afraid you're going to have to find a lady on your own," Glory said. "We just haven't the facilities to add that to our services."

"But nice girls are hard—"

Just then Adam emerged from the Hellhole with Ursula Shipton, who had disposed of her rags and now wore a black jump-suit and red sandals. Her hair—washed, cut, styled—was indeed blonde, with a red coral clip in it on the left side. She carried a small black sequined purse and a loose-knit red cardigan. Her now-scoured complexion was lovely. I had almost not recognized her save for the cheek­bones and the eyes. She looked even younger than I'd guessed her to be.

"Who?" Ash asked, nodding in her direction.

"A client, like yourself. No, not like yourself," I said.

"Is she married?" he whispered.

"Widowed," I said. "Would you like an introduction?"

"Please."

"Now the money I gave you should last about a week," Adam was saying. "If it doesn't, just come back here when­ever you need more. As a matter of fact, it would probably be a good idea for you to check in here every day, anyhow. That way we can deal with your questions as they arise. I wish I could spare the personnel to escort—"

I cleared my throat.

"Ursula Shipton," I said, "I would like to introduce Mr. Ashton Ash."

He reached forward and took her hand, bowed slightly and raised it to his lips. "I overheard somewhat of your instructions," he said, "and I would be happy to serve as your escort for so long as you choose—starting, perhaps, with lunch."

"Why, thank you," she said, glancing at Adam and at me, "Mr. Ash."

"Just Ash," he said.

"In that case, there are several things you ought to know," I told him. "The lady is from the sixteenth century. This is the distant future to her."

"I understand," he said, "being from a different period myself, even if it is only sixty years down the line."

"Do you know contemporary Rome well enough to show her around?" Adam asked.

"Oh yes. I used your establishment as a Tube stop for some time," he said, "before I got up nerve to consult you on my problem. I'd slink out and explore. And I usually hit this period. I could show her the future version as well as the present one if—"

"I've already seen the future version," she said. "In fact, I've already seen this one. I prefer this one and will probably want to live and conduct my affairs here. I would like to see some of the things close-up, of course."

Adam nodded. Ash conducted her to the door. "I'll give you that close-up view," he said.

"And I'll protect you while you're about it," she told him. "I'll point out the bad neighborhoods as we come to them."

Ash gave me a puzzled look and I smiled and nodded. "She's got a very good left," I explained.

When they were gone Adam laughed. "We could open a dating service, you know," he said. "I can think of some very interesting matches from different eras—"

"Forget it," Glory said. "Do favors, but stick to essen­tials."

"I suppose you're right."

"What did it take to get her looking that way?" I asked.

"Mostly soap and water," he replied, "and a once through the hair, face, and body parlor—for nothing she couldn't have gotten downtown. And a run by the instant garments unit."

"Cheap date," I said. "You're knocking off that list nicely. What kind of body you going to use for the Iddroid?"

"Cagliostro suggested one of the standard android mod­els," he replied. "With everything it will have going for it, though, it should be able to modify itself easily, even beyond the physical."

"It does sound dangerous."

"To be bold is to incur risk."

"What are you going to do with the thing once you've got it?"

"I have major plans, but I'll have to discuss them with Cagliostro."

"I thought you were doing this for him—because it's a snappy project."

"True. But I'd anticipated it. I just didn't have the for­mula myself. He walked in with it at the right time."

"What if he doesn't like your ideas?"

"He is a reasonable man."

"Let us hope."

"And now, about that long-term memory for you. I say it's time. What do you think?"

"Agree," I said. "You've had me curious for so long that I'm ready to give it a shot. Proust, you say? You've got stuff there from that whole crowd?"

"Oh yes. I gave Charlus—the real Charlus, that is, the Comte de Montesquiou-Ferensac—the temporary orienta­tion for his affair with Sarah Bernhardt, though afterwards he said he'd never do anything like that again. A very de­manding woman. Later, Montesquieu wanted some piety. Did you know that he also served Huysmans as the model for Des Esseintes in A Rebours? Robert Montesquieu was a man of no particular talent who thus managed a double lit­erary achievement of sorts, and a minor theatrical one. I—"

I was distracted by the appearance of a woman in the foyer at his back. And not just any woman, but one of the loveliest I'd ever seen. She was tall and lithe, with skin the color of dark smoke. She had a mane of natural-looking white hair with black streaks which fell halfway down her back. Her ears were pointed and silver hoops hung in them. Her nails were black and also pointed, her chin small, brow wide. She had on a black cloak over an inches-wide spiral of black material which covered her strategically and seemed to spiral about her at the same time. The cloak's clasp and the anklet above her left foot were of silver. She fixed Glory with her yellow eyes and raised a finger to her lips. Glory nodded slightly. I shivered when she met my gaze and repeated the gesture.

Then she moved, without making a sound, advancing upon Adam's back.

"... And Robert Haas, the original for Swann," Adam was saying. "He was the nicest guy in the crowd—"

Suddenly the lady vanished. For a moment, I thought she knew the mini-teleportation trick. Then I realized that she had dropped to all fours. She arched her back, and then she lowered it, crouching.

Then she pounced. But even as she did, he was turning, smiling. He caught her in his arms and was borne over back­wards by her. Moments later, they were rolling all over the floor making sounds like alley cats.

I moved nearer to Glory and looked at her. "What's going on?" I asked.

"The lady is Prandha Rhadi—'Prandy' for short," she explained. "She's his old girlfriend. They've had this on-and-off thing down the centuries." She crossed to the niche and threw the Switch. "Hate to have a customer come in just now." Adam and Prandy were both on all fours now and seemed at this point to be spitting at each other.

"Are they just being emotional, or would all these sounds happen to be their language?" I asked.

"Both," she replied. "Really, I thought we'd seen the last of her around World War One."

"You don't approve?"

"Of course I approve. It's hard to meet a cat girl around here. It's just that he's always so sad when they break up."

"Maybe they won't break up this time."

"We'll see."

She made a gesture toward the stairway with her eyes. It seemed a good idea and I followed her. At my back there was a rapid exchange of slow, half-growled, half-hissed sounds. Before I reached the top of the stair these were punctuated by several higher-pitched exclamations or state­ments.

Upstairs, we closed the door to Glory's room behind us. By then, the sounds of movement had recommenced below.

"What's their story?" I asked, as we both sprawled for a moment on the big bed.

"They met a very long time ago in the distant future/' Glory said. "They hit it off very well, too. Then one day they learned that they were each other's designated mates, for purposes of preserving the Kaleideion genes. It seemed one of those cases of really enjoying something until someone tells you you have to do it. Immediately, some spark went out of the romance. Or the whole thing was a powder keg and the spark was ignited. Either way, they quarreled. Now, Adam hadn't told her about this project—the Luogo Nero— and he simply took off shortly thereafter."

"A moment," I said. "Surely they could simply have donated a few cells to the project and continued just as they were."

"Nevertheless, it bothered them. I don't know whether it's simply their mutual neurosis or represents something in the structure of the cat mind itself—not wanting to do what you are told. I know that it wouldn't matter to me or to my species at large, and you Graylons are even said to make a virtue of it—"

I turned and looked into her eyes.

"Oops," she said.

I nodded.

"'Graylon' was one of the words Ursula used about me," I said.

"It means 'human' but there are certain other connota­tions."

"What are they?"

"You must first understand that a standard model human being such as yourself is quite rare in the last—that is, distant—future. The ones who have struggled to retain this form are racial purists of the highest sort."

"It would seem as if you cat and snake and mongoose and fox people would have to be pretty much the same way. If you can't interbreed you've got racial purity whether you want it or not."

"True. But with the Graylon—who worked so long at preserving it and enhancing it—there's an ideological com­ponent as well. That is, the original human form is consid­ered the best. Others are deemed inferior."

I smiled. "... And of course we can't conceive of snakes, cats, mongooses, foxes—whatever—thinking that way about themselves."

She was silent for several moments, then, "Certain indi­viduals of any race are always going to believe that," she said.

"Only when the Graylon do it, it's bad," I said, "because they're probably the devils in your mythology—the dictato­rial creators from whom you had to win your freedom. Pride in anything has to be a vice if they've got it."

"They've done everything they can in the way of gene manipulation, cloning, and specialized training to turn themselves into a super-race, one that really is superior to all of the others. The last true humans are self-designed monuments to the notion of superiority."

I laughed.

"How is this so different from you guys winnowing, breeding, selecting, tailoring to produce your Kaleideion? Sounds as if you might even have stolen the notion from those who wanted to see their entire race that way—a fully democratic end within a people. But a Kaleideion? Seems as if they'd like to have everybody goose-stepping—pardon me, pussyfooting—before him. Seems a lot more dangerous than the Graylons' self-improvement program."

"You must all be programmed to think that way!"

"I'm not even willing to admit that I'm one of those guys! I'm just trying to apply a little reason to the claims I'm hearing."

". . . And it's so deeply ingrained that it functions with­out your even being aware of it."

"I hope you realize you're setting up a no-win scenario for me, no matter what I say."

"What are the highest virtues of a civilized people?" she said suddenly. "Respect for the law? The arts? Devotion to high cultural ends? A dedication to learning the will of the people and promulgating it for the greatest good?"

"I'd be willing to bet it differs from species to species," I said.

"Fair enough. I was drawing generalities from several of them. What do you think the Graylons' ideal might be?"

I shrugged.

"They reasoned that humanity started out as a band of predators, and in one fashion or another remained so throughout history. Therefore, since this was the virtue that made them great, they would enhance it. And they did. No matter what their final individual goals in life, the basic breeding, conditioning, and training of a Graylon is for the hunt. Yours is a race of hunters, Alf."

"So is yours, Glory, or it wouldn't have survived to be perpetuated in your delightful person. All of the species had to be predators in order to survive. That's no big deal. And the cats even throw in a touch of sadism in dealing with their prey. No, you've told me nothing I consider morally objec­tionable about the Graylon. Is what bothers you the fact that they make open avowals concerning their basic nature?"

"No," she said. "But they send their youths off to hunt the most dangerous beasts in the universe. This is how their career choices are made. And those who show a flair for it become their real hunters."

"The custodians?"

"'Colosodians.' They are the professional hunters, the ones to whom all others turn when there is hunting to be done. They range up and down space-time after whatever they have been hired to pursue. Their prowess is legendary, as is their record of achievement. Pay them enough, and they'll bring back whatever you want, dead or alive."

"The universe has to have its cops," I said.

"A Graylon colosodian is more like a bounty hunter."

"Them, too, " I said.

"That's your conditioning talking."

"Or yours. So let's call it even for now. All of this came out of Adam and Prandy's story, which I still haven't heard."

She nodded. "After they quarreled and he departed on this job, she spent a long time trying to figure where he had gone."

"So this is a secret project, outside the quadratic frater­nity?"

"Because Adam is the Kaleideion, it was kept very quiet."

"How'd she find him, then?"

She turned onto her side, facing away from me. She reached out and stroked a former self upon the wall. Below, the caterwauling sounds had died away, to be replaced by something softer and steadier.

Finally, she said, "I get the impression she hired a colosodian to track him through time, since they are the best and have their own ways of traveling through it."

I managed to stifle my laugh, turned it into an "Oy!"

"And one day, back in Etruria, she turned up on the doorstep. There was a joyous, tear-filled reconciliation, and they lived happily ever after for a number of years."

"Till they quarreled again?" I asked.

"That's right. She went away then and he was sad for a long while."

"Till she came back."

"Yes."

"And later they quarreled and she left again."

"Yes."

"And this pattern was to be repeated down the cen­turies."

"Yes."

"It almost sounds like a special mating ritual—taking time off to become a somewhat different person when things grow stale, returning in a new avatar."

From downstairs the new avatars began to wail.

Glory turned back and she was smiling.

"You have a lot of odd insights for one of your kind," she said. "Too bad you're also a bloodthirsty bastard out to kill us for money."

I covered my face with my hands and heaved my shoul­ders a few times. "I weep," I said. "I weep at all this misun­derstanding."

She drew nearer. "You do not," she said. "It's entirely phony. You're not crying."

"No, I'm not very good at it. But at least I'm going through the motions on your behalf—which is totally Con­fucian and full of respect."

She touched my neck. "Weirdest damned hunter I ever heard of," she said.

"I refuse to be your self-fulfilling prophecy," I stated. "So now what do we have to look forward to from Adam and Prandy? A period of domestic bliss? The lover's inadver­tent lobotomizing of a customer when he meant only to remove the quality of perfect pitch?"

"Yes, silly little things like that," she said. "But I've a feeling it won't last. For ages, I've kept track of these things, and this reconciliation is way ahead of schedule. So I made it a point for once to listen carefully to what she was say­ing."

"'For once'? Are you the mother-in-law figure in the poor girl's existence?"

She hissed long and hard. Then, "Do you want to hear this story or don't you?" she asked.

"Please. Go on."

"She came back," she said, "because of the discovery of a fragment of an ancient historical document which actually mentions this place."

"Got nostalgic, huh?"

"No. But the document indicated that we go out of busi­ness about now."

"Say how?"

"No. Maybe on another page. That's the way it is with fragments."

"And of course it didn't indicate what becomes of the proprietor?"

"Right."

I stretched slowly, reached out and drew her to me. "So what's to do?"

"Wait and watch and try to protect him," she said. "I wish I knew more about you." So I kissed her.

Later, looking down upon her, I recalled an old poem I had once written. I recited it:

She stared up into my eyes. Then, "I have never heard that rendered into English before," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"It is a famous Eighth Millennium, Pan-Galactic Era love poem," she told me, "applicable to many species. You couldn't have written it."

"I thought I did."

"Even if you were there you couldn't have. Colosodians don't write poetry."

I shook my head and smiled. "Who knows?" I said. "I don't. Kiss me, Glory."

At some point many hours later there came a scratching on our door. I got up and opened it.

Adam stood before me, casually dressed, smiling. "All," he said. "I want you to let us out. Would you put on a gar­ment and come down and throw the Switch for us? Prandy and I want to get away, outside, somewhere, for a time, together. Then you can flip the Switch again and sleep for as long as you want."

"Sure thing," I said, snatching up my trousers from the floor, shaking them out, holding them just right, and per­forming my favorite gymnastic feat. It was seldom I had an audience for it. ...

Afterwards, our gazes met and held for a moment.

"Most impressive," he said. "That's the first time I've really seen someone put on a pair of pants, both legs at once."

"... And to answer your question, no," I told him. "The skill is not up for trade. I spent too long learning it when I should have been studying."

I walked him down the stairs, nodded to Prandy, and asked, "Uh, how long you plan on being gone? What I'm getting at is do you want us to be open for business while you're away?"

"Hell, yes," he said. "You've got to throw the Switch sooner or later and get into the timestream just to be able to let us back in. Anyway, you've learned the meet-the-public stuff real well, and Nan will do all the psyche cutting and pasting. She might even start you in on the simpler procedures. It'll be good for you." He glanced at Prandy. "A few days, perhaps," he added. "Maybe even a week or so."

Prandy nodded and glanced at the door. I reached into the niche and threw the Switch and saw them on their way. Sunny day.

When I crawled back into bed Glory asked me, "What was that all about?"

"They wanted to go off, outside, and be together for a few days."

She yawned.

"Always happens," she told me.

"... And we're supposed to run the place—maybe fur­ther my education in the Hellhole."

"Good idea," she said, drawing me to her. "No prob­lem."

I wondered what she had been dreaming, as there were green stains on her pillow and around her mouth. Venom is like olives, though. You can develop a taste for it.

There was a lot of business in the days that followed. As usual, much of it was mundane and some of it interesting. The ones that light up in my memory are the Case of the Man with the Invisible Appendage, the Woman Who Was Too Acid, the Human-Tuned Portian, the Man Who Broad­cast Moods, the Involuntary Teleporter, the Lady Whose Looks Could Kill, the Case of the Double Doppelganger, the Man Who Dreamed Upside Down, the Village in a Rigelian Crystal, the Girl Who Stole Blue, the Seven Bonded Muzwachians and their Unusual Spatial Orientation, the Rudwhorvian Who Was Too Courteous, the Greatest Lover on Peridip, the Vendetta Flowers, and the Bland Augur.

Every day, though, come Rudwhorvians or the absence of blue, I repaired to the John for five minutes or so and practiced my mini-teleports, finally picking up a little facil­ity with them—though I still couldn't manage the smile bit. But smiles could wait for later.

Things went well enough. Glory did let me operate a lit­tle, and one day I realized I was actually starting to like the work. Sure enough, though, Glory was upstairs and not available for immediate assistance the day Cagliostro appeared, adding a faint whiff of sulfur and brimstone to the air. He clasped my shoulder and clasped my hand, looking past me the while. "Bonjour, M'sieur. How are you? Is M'sieur Maser in, is le Maitre in?" he asked.

"Afraid not. Perhaps I can help you, Count."

"Is he expected back soon?"

"I'm not sure when he'll be back. He's taking care of a little personal business."

"Ah, c'est damage, but perhaps you will serve," the Count said, turning his attention to me. "How goes our project?"

"Oh, it's coming along very nicely," I told him. "A great number of the ingredients have been collected—and some, as Adam said, were already in stock. I don't think it will be too much longer before he has them all and can assemble the iddroid."

Cagliostro wrinkled his nose.

"Son mot," he said. "M'sieur Maser's word. I'm not over­joyed with it."

"Why not?"

"It's Freudian. The id is an idee Freudian, the space psy­chological where the primal sexual energy—the libido—is wild and strong, driving the rest of the mind—"

"I know," I said. "I've read Freud. What's wrong with his term?"

"The psychology of Freud is mainly about the young, people still defining themselves sexually, people whose hor­mones aren't settled yet. Once their chemistry and their life experiences lay down regular patterns it becomes apparent where the real power lies."

"Jung?" I said. "For the more mature? Individuation and all that? Your collective unconscious is a Jungian term. By the way, Adam's found you the one you needed. Traded it off an interstellar headhunter from a million or so years back."

"Oui.The man is terribly efficient."

"Yes."

"Mais non, it was not Jung that I was thinking of. It was Adler."

"Power drives?"

"Power. Oui. The drive to dominate, to command, to be le premier, the boss. That's where all the energy psychique goes after the youthful sex drives have had their fun."

"Maybe for every psychologist there's an equal and opposite psychologist," I offered.

He chuckled. "Non, non," he said. "M'sieur Alf, look around you. Look inside yourself. Life is all power games. Everyone wants to be the God of something, tout le monde. It's just a question of how big a kingdom we can each carve ourselves, how high we can rise."

"So you don't like 'Iddroid.' What do you want to call it?"

"Dominoid," he said.

I nodded. "'Dominoid.' Has a nice sound to it. What's in a name, anyway?"

He slapped me on the back.

"Vraiment. Precisely," he said. "Here we are playing word games and we could call the creature 'Fido' for all it matters. The name won't change its nature . . . which, of course, will be Adlerian. May I see what we've got now?"

"I don't know whether Adam would like you looking over his workshop when he's not there," I said. "I think it would be better if you came back in a few days and let him show you the collection himself. I know you'd get better explanations from him, too."

He put an arm around my shoulders and turned me toward the Hellhole. "All," he said, "it's not as if I'm some customer in off the street. We're partners."

"True. Still. . ."

"I just want a quick look, one moment."

"All right. Come on."

I took him into the Hellhole and led him toward the work area Adam had set up for this project. Within it, in sta­sis, hung all of the qualities so far assembled, neatly aligned. The ones that did not lend themselves to visual represen­tation had labeled icons hovering amid their sparkling spaces. To touch any one of them was momentarily to expe­rience it.

"Merveilleux!" Cagliostro said. "He's certainly been busy."

"Indeed."

"I wonder whether we might have a little more light? Un peu? It's awfully dark in here."

"Adam has found this part of the spectrum and this intensity to be best for him when working with stuff of the mind. But to oblige a partner—" I reached up and unzipped space, drew forth a trouble light, and touched it to life. "What did you want to see?"

"That icon over there. Ah. 'Scrying by aggression.'"

"A recent acquisition of mine," I said.

"I thought you worked for a magazine americaine."

"I do. But I decided to cover this properly. I really had to learn the business from the ground up."

"Commendable. Tres ban! Where are the controls?" He pointed at the space into which I was stuffing the light. "In one of those pockets?"

A cascade of bleeding wounds flashed upon the wall to my right.

"I don't know what you mean," I said, sealing it off.

"The master controls for the whole business," he said. "This place is a ship, oui? I mean the controls by which M'sieur Maitre brought it here."

"Oh," I said, recalling Glory's recounting that it had once been some sort of vessel they'd ridden in from the future. "I don't know. It's not relevant for my story."

"They must be around here somewhere, if the singular­ity's off that way—"

"I wouldn't know," I said. "Why is it important?"

"Oh, it isn't really. De rien. I was just curious what they'd look like for something so grand and powerful."

His eyes kept searching and I began to feel uncomfort­able. Drifting amputations and strings of organs passed between us, along with a horde of aggressions. "I'm afraid I can't help you. You're going to have to ask Adam about that one, too, when he gets back."

He shrugged. "Pas important," he said. "The body will be placed in stasis here, at the end of the storage field, while we install its attributes, yes?"

"Not really," I told him. "There's a different field for doing such work." I gestured. "It's farther to the rear. We'll set him up there and transport this stuff back."

"Then why is it all up here?"

"Adam is a perfectionist. He set up this special area, away from other business, for purposes of reviewing each quality. He'll move it all back when the time comes."

"Admirable. May I see that other area?"

A love-hate scherzo played suddenly through my breast and a collection of welts on every color skin imaginable flowed underfoot.

I felt myself possessed by a determination that Cagliostro not see the clones. So, "Sorry," I told him. "That's off-limits just now. There's another project underway at the moment back there."

"Certainement, I wouldn't disturb it."

"I didn't think you would. By the way, what sort of body is to host this milieu? I think Adam said something about a fancy android from your period?"

"Ah! Oui, a top-of-the-line twenty-fifth-century android body known as an adaptoid. It's used for work on other planets and in deep space. It has enormous capacity to change itself: It reads the environment, writes its own specs, and effectuates them."

"I can see why you'd want to remove the Frankenstein factor then," I said. "It sounds as if it could be a tough spar­ring partner."

"True," he said, "but careful design conquers all."

"Despite Adler?"

He chuckled. "Everybody plays Adler's games. It doesn't make everybody dangerous."

"And if aggressive capacity comes with the turf? If it's hardwired into humans and will accompany any human trait we instill, like a part of the hologram of the rest?"

"My, we are pessimistic," he said, as flames leaped be­hind him. "Where'd you reach to find that one?"

"Got it from Bertrand Russell."

"Bah! It goes against all his thinking."

"He wasn't proposing it as a thesis. He was examining it as a speculation and offering it as a caution."

"Bertrand Russell! Mon Dieu! Who'd have thought he'd get involved in my petit project? Still, even if he is correct it does not follow that aggressive behavior will manifest just because the capacity is present. Do you go around striking people you dislike? Of course not. Or not usually. Non, there's a difference between the capacity for aggression and the tendency to turn on one's creator."

"—Or father-figure," I suggested. "Terribly Freudian, I admit. Is that why you don't like the idea?"

A mushroom-shaped cloud bloomed on the wall behind him. "That has nothing to do with it!" he cried. "The Dominoid requires a capacity for aggression! We need only pre­vent its developing undesirable complexes! Such as the Oedipus! We need only keep control of that primal drive! We know how! Enough said." Then he caught himself. "Pardon, I didn't mean the aggression. I meant the power drive," he said.

"Sure," I told him. "But one thing more. Off the sub­ject."

"Oui?"

"What's it for? You must have some use in mind for the thing."

He looked away. The cloud at his back collapsed and blew on, to be succeeded by the image of fish nibbling at a floating corpse.

"Mainly research," he said, "into synthetic life. If it meets all our expectations, however, there are some small cosmological observations I'd like to use it for. I'm sure they've occurred to Adam, also, and I don't see how we can be in disagreement—though we must discuss it soon. Thank you for the reminder."

"What sort of observations?"

He glanced back along the tunnel.

"Like the work back there," he said. "Off-limits. After all, you are a writer working on a story, not a true employee. Your tenure here is limited. Let us leave it at that."

I nodded, as the fish swarmed and the corpse vanished. I turned toward the doorway. "Let's head back out then," I said.

"It's amazing, the art displays in this room," he told me.

"A function of the place," I said.

"Have they appeared around me, too?" he asked sud­denly.

"You bet. All bunny rabbits and butterflies."

"Oh. I take it they're not really indicative of anything but the general."

"Wouldn't know," I said. "I don't really work here."

After I'd conducted him to the parlor, where he gave Glory, who was there, book in hand, a courtly bow, he squeezed my shoulder and hand again and was gone.

"What was he doing in the Hellhole?" she asked me.

"He wanted to see how far along his project is."

"I wonder whether Adam would have approved?"

"He pretty much asserted his rights as a partner. I could have stopped him if he tried to mess with anything."

"I'm sure you could have. No real choice. No harm done."

"Did Adam tell you what he wants the thing for— above and beyond seeing whether the experiment will work?"

"Yes," she said. Then she smiled.

"Another of those Do Not Discuss things?"

"For now," she said, putting the book aside and stretch­ing. "You ready for more clients? Or you want a break?"

I was in the foyer and had the Switch thrown in a moment.

"Break time" I said. "That was a rough one."

Later, in the washroom, it seemed that my reflection winked at me. Then, "The coin trick, Orrie. Do the coin trick," it ordered, and I remembered.

I dug into my right-hand pocket and removed a handful of coins. Tossing them high, I plucked them one by one from the air and repocketed them, save for the last one—a quarter—which I tore in half.

"Time for you to have your speed back," my voice seemed to say, "so that you can have some time to get used to it again. Hate to dump everything on you at once."

I stared.

"Look," I said finally, "obviously I'm living with a load of masking memories. For how long I've been doing it, I have no idea. They all seem real, and at least some of them must be. Whatever I'm finally to get in the way of real ones, please—don't take away my being a boy in the Bronx, my years at Brown, my friends, my work as a writer. I don't care if they're fake. They're real to me. If there are a lot more I don't know about, yes, give them to me. I'll take them. Give me whatever you want. No complaint. But please, please let me keep these, too, for I just realized how dear they are to me."

Then my eyes brimmed over and my reflection's did the same. No more answers.

I waited for as long as it took, then washed my face and went to look for Glory, careful to keep my speed down.

I found her in her room, stretched out on the bed. She gave me a small smile. "Love is a strange business," she said.

"Agreed," I responded, still standing just inside the door.

"It should make you happy, not sad."

"It should," I said. "In fact it does, me."

"But you won't be with me much longer."

I stroked her nearest skin. "Soon old Alf will be chang­ing his skin, too," I said. "No telling what we might find underneath, eh?"

"Exactly," she said. "You will get all of your old memo­ries and you will become my enemy."

"No. I will not become your enemy."

"Dammy's then. Same thing. We stand together."

"I do not believe you have seen the entire picture."

"But we have evidence and you have nothing."

"I have my feelings, and I do not think I would have them if they were not basically true," I said. "For some­where inside I know what's going on, and I do not believe that that part of me would mislead this part of me this way."

She laughed. "There are awfully subtle conditioning techniques," she stated, "and the mind is a very malleable thing."

"I know," I agreed, "and I haven't anything left to say on the matter."

"Come here," she said, opening her arms. "I want you while you're still you."

I went to her and sat beside her and looked down at her. Her eyes were big and moist and far apart and wondrous deep.

"You've come here from the end of the universe," she said slowly. "That sword Mother Shipton saw had to be yours. Your destiny is chaotic."

"That may well be the case, but it has nothing to do with your fears."

"The computer was unable to locate an English transla­tion of the poem anywhere," she went on.

"That's its problem, not mine."

"Speak, that I may record it."

I did.

"When I hear you I almost believe you," she said. "But I don't see how it could be."

"Once on a journey I outsmarted myself," I explained, "and I never recovered."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure," I said. "But I remember the constellation you made me—I see it now—and the stars in your eyes are my only destination tonight."

I moved nearer those primal lights and was lost among them.