Schrodinger's Cat Trilogy Part 6

But quantumly inseparable from Ubu nurse Ida Pingala peeks into the Wildeblood room to see if the patient is sleeping comfortably (always got to be careful with these rich b.i.t.c.hes especially the types we get here in Trans-s.e.xuality Surgery rather be back in obs so helpless and adorable they are even if some of the mothers shouldn't be raising kittens much less humans) (always got to be careful with these rich b.i.t.c.hes especially the types we get here in Trans-s.e.xuality Surgery rather be back in obs so helpless and adorable they are even if some of the mothers shouldn't be raising kittens much less humans) and leans fixing the hem on her skirt as the figure in the bed gurgles a half-snore mutter "Master ... escape ..." and leans fixing the hem on her skirt as the figure in the bed gurgles a half-snore mutter "Master ... escape ..."

Another quantum jump: "One hundred thirty-two?" Ubu repeated.

"Those are the figures that came out of the Beast," Babbit said evenly. "One hundred thirty-two of the top scientific minds who've left government since the ec programs were implemented are not working for private industry, teaching at universities, or anywhere else to be found."

*Terran Archives 2803: Was.h.i.+ngton was the capital city of Unistat. It was governed ostensibly by a baseball team called the Senators, but by the time of our story real control had fallen into the hands of the FBI and the Beast. Was.h.i.+ngton was the capital city of Unistat. It was governed ostensibly by a baseball team called the Senators, but by the time of our story real control had fallen into the hands of the FBI and the Beast.

s.e.x, STATUS, SUCCESS.

It may have been coincidence or synchronicity or the quantum inseparability principle (QUIP), but the very same day that Epicene Wildeblood became Mary Margaret Wildeblood in Baltimore and Babbit briefed Roy Ubu on the Brain Drain mystery in Was.h.i.+ngton, Blake Williams was teaching a cla.s.s at Columbia and Hugo de Naranja was a student in it. Since Hugo was the first human being who ever saw the Cat, he should have been paying close attention to Williams, but in fact he was a poet and felt it his duty to be bored by all the sciences. Hugo would settle for a gentleman's C in "The Anthropology of Quantum Physics." Hugo was a Santaria Santaria initiate, the third ex-husband of Carol Christmas, and (although he didn't know it) he worked for Ha.s.san i Sabbah X. initiate, the third ex-husband of Carol Christmas, and (although he didn't know it) he worked for Ha.s.san i Sabbah X.

"It wasn't Einstein," Williams was droning along, "and it wasn't even Heisenberg or dear old Schrodinger who drove the last nail in the coffin of common sense. It was John S. Bell, who published his memorable Theorem in 1964, nearly twenty years ago," and blah blah blah. Hugo was more interested in the a.s.s of the girl in the row ahead of him. He wanted both his hands on that a.s.s. He wanted her thighs around his waist. He wanted his c.o.c.k way up inside her hot White Protestant p.u.s.s.y. s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g Latino girls rated 0 in his book (that was only s.e.x), s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g Jewish girls was 5 (that was Status), but s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g a White Protestant girl was 10 points and a gold star (that was SUCCESS).

Williams continues to transmit to blank bored faces: "Bell's Theorem basically deals with nonlocality. That is, it shows that no local explanation can account for the known facts of quantum mechanics. Um perhaps I should clarify that. A local explanation is one that a.s.sumes that things seemingly separate in s.p.a.ce and time are really separate. Um? Yes. It a.s.sumes, that is to say, that s.p.a.ce and time are independent of our primate nervous systems. Do I have your attention, cla.s.s?

"But Bell is even more revolutionary. He offers us two choices if we try to keep locality, and if there are any students in this cla.s.s who are seriously interested in the subject this would be a good time to take a few notes. Um. First choice: we can abandon quantum mechanics itself. That of course means inescapably that we abandon atomic physics and about three-quarters of everything we call science. Um. Now we really don't want to give up quantum mechanics so let's look at choice two. We give up objectivity. Well, that's not too great a sacrifice for those of us who have already given up sweets and male superiority and ha ha faith in the integrity of government or even cigarettes. We can give up objectivity. Ahhh yes but the trouble is ... Yes Mr. Naranja?"

"Ees this goan be on the examination sir?"

"No you needn't worry about that Mr. Naranja we wouldn't dream of asking anything hard on the examination I believe the last examination with a hard question given at this university was in a survey of mathematics course in 1953 yes Mr. Lee?"

"Is possibre that quantum connection is not immediate and unmitigated? Then perhaps we take choice one and give up not quantum mechanics itself but merely modify the quantum connection in a sense that it is some way sir mediate or mitigated, does that seem possibre sir?"

"Ah Mr. Lee how did you ever land at this university there are times I suspect you of actually seeking an education but I'm afraid in this case your canny intellect has run aground. Recent experiments by Clauser and Aspect shut that door forever. The quantum connection is immediate, unmitigated, and I might say omnipresent as the Thomist G.o.d."

"So. You tell us, Professor Williams, how many times Crauser's experiment has been verified?"

Jingle bells, jingle bells, Jingle all the way Rebirth, Wildeblood was deciding, is messier than first birth, despite old Augustine and his media feces et urine media feces et urine trip ... how much he had wanted to be Annette Haven in the cl.u.s.terf.u.c.k scene in trip ... how much he had wanted to be Annette Haven in the cl.u.s.terf.u.c.k scene in China Girl: China Girl: one c.o.c.k in Her mouth, one in Her s.n.a.t.c.h, one in each hand: ah, Wildeblood, 'twere paradise enow. But the reality of it, the adjustments to be made: one c.o.c.k in Her mouth, one in Her s.n.a.t.c.h, one in each hand: ah, Wildeblood, 'twere paradise enow. But the reality of it, the adjustments to be made: Sit down when you want to pee Sit down when you want to pee Sit down when you want to pee SHe was writing it out a hundred times, to avoid making that that mistake again. Ego is much more a body image than she had known. Psychologically, she was androgynous WoMan, the Baphomet idol; physically, she had to sit down to pee. mistake again. Ego is much more a body image than she had known. Psychologically, she was androgynous WoMan, the Baphomet idol; physically, she had to sit down to pee.

Oh what fun it is to ride But Roy Ubu, back at FBI headquarters, was already briefing a five-man team on the brain drain mystery.

"You mean," Special Agent Tobias Knight asked, "we're supposed to find 132 missing scientists without letting anybody know that there are 132 missing scientists we're looking for? Is that it?"

"The President Himself," Ubu p.r.o.nounced in Babbit's frigid tones, "gives this project Top Priority."

"In other words, it's impossible but you want us to do it, anyway," Knight translated.

"Now that's enough defeatism, Toby, let's get to work and believe in ourselves and by Christ a busted flush can win when the guys behind it have the b.a.l.l.s for it.... Now, here's the names in alphabetical order. One: Dr. George Was.h.i.+ngton Carver Bridge, sounds like a spade, graduate Miskatonic University; it says last worked for the government on Project Cyclops in the late seventies. Two: Dr. Charles Chance, nickname Fat, graduate Miskatonic, also last worked for the government on Cyclops. Three ..."

THE SECOND FURBISH LOUSEWART.

A man with one watch knows what time it is.

A man with two watches is never sure.-SEGAL'S LAW Percy Lousewart was born in the Ohio River Valley in 1866 and by then Lousewart was no longer considered a euphonious name. His Christian name didn't help, even though his mother had picked it due to her fervent, almost erotic, admiration for Sh.e.l.ley. She might as well have named the poor lad Cissy. Every time he introduced himself as Percy Lousewart, some bully or other felt compelled to make a witty remark, and a fight usually followed. Eventually poor Percy decided to change his name and went to see an educated man, a lawyer, about having the job done legally; he also wanted some advice on choosing a better, more popular t.i.tle. The lawyer, alas, was more than erudite; he was a bibliomaniac, an alcoholic scholar, and the kind of crank who delights in writing letters to the Britannica Britannica correcting their errors. He told Percy all about the Furbish Lousewart plant and even showed him a picture of one. He was eloquent on the subject, and his pa.s.sion was contagious. Percy Lousewart had his name changed only to Furbish Lousewart and took his lumps as they came. His first son was named Furbish Lousewart II and a tradition was begun. correcting their errors. He told Percy all about the Furbish Lousewart plant and even showed him a picture of one. He was eloquent on the subject, and his pa.s.sion was contagious. Percy Lousewart had his name changed only to Furbish Lousewart and took his lumps as they came. His first son was named Furbish Lousewart II and a tradition was begun.

MALLOY DON'T SING The variables vary too much and the constants aren't as constant as they seem.-FINAGLE'S FIFTH FUNDAMENTAL FINDING "The f.u.c.k," Malloy said. "Where you get an idea like that? I don't sing, I never sing. Who's been handing you that s.h.i.+t?"

It was a small furnished room on Taylor Street in the San Francisco tenderloin. A sign outside the window advertised an establishment on the ground floor, Les Nuits de Paris Ma.s.sage. Les Nuits de Paris Ma.s.sage.

Starhawk said, "Marty, I know three guys up in Folsom because of you. They're not sure. Each one of them, he says it might of been you, it might of been two other guys. I'm sure. I make it a point of honor to be sure about things like that. You pick up $20 here from Mendoza, $15 there from Murphy, and you tell them what you think they want to hear, mostly c.r.a.p. To keep them interested, you give them a live one now and then, somebody you don't like. You and twenty other guys in this town. Don't c.r.a.p me, Marty. I'm here to make money for you, not to give you a hard time about it."

Malloy said, "You're crazy. You should go see a psychiatrist. You must of been back on the reservation eating peyote again. I don't know what the f.u.c.k you're talking about."

"Okay," Starhawk said. "You're smart, Marty. You're so d.a.m.ned smart you don't admit anything, even when the other guy knows more about it than you do. My a.s.s. You're so d.a.m.ned smart you're stupid, is what you are."

Malloy started to get up.

"Sit down," Starhawk said. "I keep telling you, I'm not here to give you a hard time. Listen to me, Marty, just a minute. I've got a century that's not doing anything, and it's yours." He opened his wallet and laid a $100 bill on the table. "Now, do we talk about its four brothers, and what you do to get them, or do you go on s.h.i.+tting me until I go out the door and find another guy that talks to cops?"

The ma.s.sage sign below the window flickered on-off, on-off.

"Suppose I do it," Malloy said. "I mean, I'm not admitting anything, but suppose just this once I go talk to The Murph. What I got to know is, whose a.s.s is in the sling, who goes up? You understand, I don't want somebody comes looking for me from the Syndicate."

"n.o.body goes up, that's the beauty of it," Starhawk said. "You're just going to tell Murph about a guy got in today from L.A. He's here to do a job for Maldonado, see, and he got drunk and started shooting off his mouth about how funny it was, the guy he came to do the job on is a cop."

"Jesus," Malloy said. The ma.s.sage sign flickered off and on again. "Don't tell me, let me guess. Starhawk, the man of bronze, two b.a.l.l.s of cast iron and no more brains than a hamster. You got it in your head it's cop-hunting season and you're going to shoot one of them. And they trust good old Marty Malloy so much they'll spend all their time looking for an imaginary hit man from L.A., just because good old Marty tells them so. I take it all back. You don't need a psychiatrist, you need a new brain."

"Don't get your bowels in an uproar," Starhawk said. "It's not that kind of job. It's just a heist."

"What's this cop got, somebody comes all the way from L.A. to heist it? The crown jewels?"

Starhawk raised his fingers to his nose and made a sniffing motion.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Malloy said. "This cop, what he's got is a bag of snow, so he won't be talking to anybody else in the department when it turns up missing. I got to hand it to you, kid. n.o.body could have set this up for you but another cop. The f.u.c.k, it would have to be his partner. Who's p.i.s.sed because he didn't get his half, right?"

"Don't think about that, you might get so excited you'll talk about it in your sleep. The thing is, you just got to tell Murph about this Syndicate gun from L.A. and how funny he thinks it is, that this crooked cop is trying to sell some hot snow to Maldonado's boys and they just went and brought up this gorilla to take it from him, no down payment, no monthly installments, for free."

Malloy was grinning broadly. "Murph'll s.h.i.+t," he said. "He'll absolutely s.h.i.+t a brick."

"Yeah," Starhawk said. "I kind of think he will. You like it?"

"Kiddo," Malloy said, "if I wasn't so broke this week, I'd do it free. Just to watch him trying not to look like the cop I'm telling him about. The fat p.r.i.c.k."

"I sort of figured you'd like it," Starhawk said. "Me, the only thing I regret is I can't be there to see his face myself."

"Yeah," Malloy said. "The fat p.r.i.c.k."

IS VLAD A SYMBOL?.

A cla.s.s made up solely of intellectuals will always have a guilty conscience.-FURBISH LOUSEWART V, Unsafe Wherever You Go Unsafe Wherever You Go "Defection?" Ubu suggested at the second conference on the Brain Drain. "Russia or China ..."

"The CIA was the first agency into this," Babbit said, "and they say it's impossible. They know what color drawers every commissar wears these days with the latest surveillance techniques. One hundred thirty-two top American scientists are not working over there unknown to the CIA. Take that as axiomatic." Babbit was firm.

"Well there are only twelve people in HOME...."

"They haven't left the planet," Babbit said briefly. "People of that caliber do not travel about without somebody noticing-Intelligence, newspapers, TV, other scientists, somebody. somebody. It is as if they have crawled into a hole and dragged the ground in after them." His chair creaked screeee as he leaned forward for emphasis. It is as if they have crawled into a hole and dragged the ground in after them." His chair creaked screeee as he leaned forward for emphasis.

"h.e.l.l, they're not loose inside inside the country sir," Ubu said firmly. "Americans can't just disappear these days. Why to cash a check any kind of check you've got to write the country sir," Ubu said firmly. "Americans can't just disappear these days. Why to cash a check any kind of check you've got to write both both your Social Security number and your GWB number and have them both scanned by the Beast. Sir there's never been a people better watched and protected than the American people of November 1983. And we expect to do even better sir when the new circuits are put in the Beast next month." your Social Security number and your GWB number and have them both scanned by the Beast. Sir there's never been a people better watched and protected than the American people of November 1983. And we expect to do even better sir when the new circuits are put in the Beast next month."

He's gonna find out who's naughty or nice But the snow falls thicker, making a blanket of foam against the window of Babbit's office and piles against the door of The Upstart Crow bookstore off Dupont Circle across town, where Marvin Gardens is autographing copies of Vlad Victorious. Vlad Victorious.

"I never got a real live autograph from a real live author Mr. Gardens tell me why did you write two books about a man like Vlad?"

"To make money," Marvin said in his Peter Lorre c.o.kehead voice. He had prepared for the ordeal of the seventeenth autograph party in twenty-three days by snorting more than his usual morning quant.i.ty of the snow and was in no mood to conceal his divinity from the blind unc.o.ked Earthlings. "I have always been possessed by a mad, pa.s.sionate mad, pa.s.sionate, almost erotic erotic desire for a very large bank account. In fact, I love the desire for a very large bank account. In fact, I love the feel feel of money the crisp of money the crisp crinkle crinkle of bills the metal of bills the metal solidity solidity of coin the visual impact of a large check with of coin the visual impact of a large check with seven figures." seven figures."

"Is it true John Wayne will play Vlad again in the sequel?"

"That's just in the talking stage now and frankly I don't care if they cast Raquel Welch the important thing is cash on the barrelhead cash on the barrelhead my agent is asking a million for the screen rights and we won't settle for a penny less ... Yes?" my agent is asking a million for the screen rights and we won't settle for a penny less ... Yes?"

"Is Vlad really a symbol?"

O come let us adore Him O come let us adore Him The twelve people in HOME-High Orbital Mini-Earth-were construction engineers, six male and six female. They had originally been sent there to build, with materials s.h.i.+pped from Lunar Mining, HOME II, a s.p.a.ce village for 10,000 occupants. This program had been canceled as "non-ec" by President Lousewart and the twelve colonists restricted to "ec" research, mostly astronomical, which President Lousewart turned over to his astrologers for a mystical interpretation.

HOME was located in the area called Libration Point 5, where the gravitational fields of Luna and Terra were equally balanced. This null-gravity area had been mathematically discovered by the astronomer Lagrange and was therefore sometimes called the Lagrange Area. The name for the s.p.a.ce town, HOME, had been coined by psychologist Timothy Leary in 1977.

A friend of Leary's named Robert Anton Wilson, who wrote overly complicated novels, had suggested a team song for the colonists, "HOME on Lagrange." To popularize this idea, he had written letters about it to many s.p.a.ce research groups and included it in a novel called The Trick Top Hat. The Trick Top Hat. Still, by 1984, the song hadn't caught on with the twelve colonists. They were not at home on Lagrange because they feared that the whole project would soon be cla.s.sified as "non-ec" and they would be dragged back to the womb-planet. Still, by 1984, the song hadn't caught on with the twelve colonists. They were not at home on Lagrange because they feared that the whole project would soon be cla.s.sified as "non-ec" and they would be dragged back to the womb-planet.

ULYSSES AT HOME.

My dog understands perfectly everything I say to him.

I am the one who does not understand.-FURBISH LOUSEWART V, Unsafe Wherever You Go Unsafe Wherever You Go Mary Margaret Wildeblood's parties were the place to go that winter because of the penile adornment above the mantelpiece. Some even began to suspect that Wildeblood had undergone the transs.e.x operation only to engage in the most flagrant excess of exhibitionism in world history.

This was an uncharitable oversimplification. Wildeblood's mind was vast, not simple, and had more kinks than a Pollack painting; She was not deep, but wide and complex. She actually intended to become a nun. When She quoted from the gospel of hir youth, "Humility is endless," She really meant it. Submission was salvation; and who is more submissive than a nun? Above all, She longed to embrace the Lamb, all woolly and fleecy and pure, but very definitely horned and Ram-signed with Pentecostal fire. She had the hots for Divine intercourse. Where Natalie Drest was merely c.o.c.k-mad, Mary Margaret Wildeblood was possessed by the G.o.d Priapus.

The idea of mounting and, so to speak, enshrining Ulysses occurred to Mary Margaret at her very first reception after returning from Johns Hopkins.

Benny "Eggs" Benedict started it by suggesting, "Norman Mailer might try to get revenge for some of your reviews by raping you."

"Let the male chauvinist pig try it,' Mary Margaret said demurely. "I've been studying kung fu."

"Oh, are you planning to join Women's Lib?" Justin Case inquired.

"I have given it some thought," Mary Margaret replied, practicing her new simpery-Marilyn-Monroe smile and positively reveling in the feel of the nylons on his, no dammit her, thighs.

"JUST A G.o.dDAM MINUTE," a booming masculine voice cut in. This was Josephine Malik, chairperson of G.o.d's Lightning-an outfit long suspected of terrorist fire-bombings against p.o.r.ny movie houses, adult bookstores, and other s.e.xist enterprises. Jo was an ideological descendant of those who thought copulation was bad for the crops. "I don't know about lib-lab wishy-washy groups like NOW," she went on, "but G.o.d's Lightning certainly isn't accepting any members who weren't born born female." female."

"Oh, now," a fluty feminine voice intervened-"Figs" Newton, spokesperson for the Necrophile Liberation Front, sporting a lapel b.u.t.ton that said, OUT OF THE MAUSOLEUMS, INTO THE STREETS. "That's hardly fair," he p.r.o.nounced-like most Terrestrials, he regarded himself as an expert on morality. "People are what they make themselves," he said, good Existentialist that he was. "To hold the accidents of birth against them is practically racism racism, isn't it?"

This led to some lively debate, and it was finally decided that to hold the accident of genitalia-at-birth against somebody was definitely not racism racism, but might be s.e.xism s.e.xism, or possibly genderism. genderism. Josephine Malik, meanwhile, smoldered. Josephine Malik, meanwhile, smoldered.

"Well," she said finally, "G.o.d's Lightning is not influenced by all this baroque baroque civil rights and civil liberties horses.h.i.+t out of the eighteenth century. According to semantics, people don't civil rights and civil liberties horses.h.i.+t out of the eighteenth century. According to semantics, people don't have have rights; they just make demands and call them their rights. It's purely a pragmatic problem. If we let this- rights; they just make demands and call them their rights. It's purely a pragmatic problem. If we let this-person-in, what's to prevent other men from hacking off their p.r.o.ngs, infiltrating our ranks, and subverting our whole organization?"

This was a poser, admittedly; and while the a.s.sembled company grappled with it, Josephine delivered her crusher: "Besides, there's a lot of doubt about how complete these operations are. How do we know Ms. Wildeblood is in all respects a true woman and not just a truncated man?"

Mary Margaret Wildeblood, who had a mind somewhat bizarre even for the twentieth century, had been waiting for such an opportunity. "I can certainly prove I'm not a man," she smiled sweetly, and drew Ulysses out of her purse. Although two men fainted on the spot, the women merely blinked, at least at first. Then some of them began to t.i.tter.

Thus began the great Wildeblood scandale scandale of that winter. She had maliciously saved the relic of her previous masculinity with the thought that it might provoke some sort of spontaneous Group Encounter sessions, and now she knew she had the potential for some truly memorable Freak-outs. The relic was placed in the hands of a skilled taxidermist and soon emerged, in a natural-looking erect state, handsomely mounted on a redwood plaque. This hung over the mantelpiece of her posh Sutton Place apartment, and there she began to hold parties to which were invited (along with the usual New York VIPs) precisely those persons most likely to be neurologically galvanized by the sight of a p.e.n.i.s without a man, which is considerably more memorable than mathematician Dodgson's grin without a cat, although perhaps not as memorable as physicist Schrodinger's cat, who was dead and alive at the same time. of that winter. She had maliciously saved the relic of her previous masculinity with the thought that it might provoke some sort of spontaneous Group Encounter sessions, and now she knew she had the potential for some truly memorable Freak-outs. The relic was placed in the hands of a skilled taxidermist and soon emerged, in a natural-looking erect state, handsomely mounted on a redwood plaque. This hung over the mantelpiece of her posh Sutton Place apartment, and there she began to hold parties to which were invited (along with the usual New York VIPs) precisely those persons most likely to be neurologically galvanized by the sight of a p.e.n.i.s without a man, which is considerably more memorable than mathematician Dodgson's grin without a cat, although perhaps not as memorable as physicist Schrodinger's cat, who was dead and alive at the same time.

Blake Williams became a regular at these soirees soirees, and often retired sneakily to the kitchen to make notes, which later resulted in a scholarly article, "Priapism Recrudescent: h.e.l.lenic Religion in a Secular Context." The "ithyphallic eidolon," as he insisted on calling Ms. Wildeblood's obscene joke, seemed to produce markedly different effects on various personality types. One football player, for instance, had to be removed in a straitjacket. Strangely enough, certain shy, timid, and stoop-shouldered men took it all in their stride, quite as if Wildeblood's brutally explicit rejection of masculinity reinforced their own loose grip upon that (after all) somewhat mystical estate. The Gay set developed a superst.i.tion, almost a mystique mystique, and the tradition of "kissing it for good luck" was even joked about, obscurely, in certain newspaper columns. ("A new religion, of which Linda Lovelace might almost be the prophet, is now sweeping the Way-Out People, all the way from Fifty-seventh Street to St. Mark's Place.")

WHY?.

Why me, O Lord?-ANCIENT PRIMATE QUESTION "I said f.u.c.k THE b.l.o.o.d.y CAPITALISTS," the California writer was howling amid the group at the mantelpiece, below the ithyphallic eidolon.

"Mother very easily made a jam sandwich using no peanuts, mayonnaise, or glue," Blake Williams was reciting patiently to Natalie Drest.

"TV, publis.h.i.+ng, movies, everywhere-the extraterrestrials have taken over," taken over," Marvin Gardens was warning in his pa.s.sionate Peter Lorre intonation. Marvin Gardens was warning in his pa.s.sionate Peter Lorre intonation.

Benny Benedict suddenly had enough of the Wildeblood high-IQ set. He wandered out on the balcony, to look at the stars and wonder, half-drunkenly, why he was so depressed.

After three years the question still came to him when he had too much booze aboard: Why me? Why me?

Which was selfish and maudlin. The real question should be: Why my mother? Why my mother?

Or, more to the point: Why anybody? Why anybody?

The world must be mad, that we go on living like this, and tolerate it. The primordial jungles were probably less dangerous than the streets of any city in Unistat. Was this the resultant of the long struggle upward from the caves-a world more frightening, more full of hatred and violence, more b.l.o.o.d.y than the days of the saber-tooth?

Every time I look at the TV news at seven, he thought miserably, I end up feeling this way before midnight. It's almost as if they're afraid somebody might have a flicker of hope or a good opinion of humanity (at least in potential) or a brief moment of delusory security. Every night, to prevent such unrealistic moods, they have to remind us that the violence and brutality is still continuing.

With a shock, Benny discovered that he was weeping again, silently, guiltily, privately. He had thought he was past that.

So much for booze as a tranquilizer.

He fought against it. It was self-indulgence, disguised self-pity actually. He dabbed his eyes and tried to think of something else. Om mani padme hum, Om mani padme hum ... Om mani padme hum, Om mani padme hum ...

"Nice night." An Unidentified Man had walked out onto the balcony.

"You don't feel the smog up here," Benny said, embarra.s.sed, wondering if he had gotten rid of the last tear before this stranger had seen him.

The Unidentified Man looked up at the stars, smiling slightly. He was good-looking enough to be an actor, Benny thought, and at second glance he did look remotely familiar, as if his face had been in the newspapers sometime. "The stars," he said, "don't they get to you?"

Benny looked up. "I used to think I'd live to see people go there," he confessed, suddenly sure he had met this man somewhere before, a long time ago. "Not likely with Lousewart leading us back to the Stone Age."

"You're non-ec," the man said, in mock accusation.