The Final Circle Of Paradise Part 17

"Peck," I said, "come with me. I'll tell you all about it."

"Leave me alone," he said, his teeth chattering. "I won't go anywhere with you. Leave off! I didn't bother you, I didn't do anything to you, leave me be, for G.o.d's sake."

"All right," I said, "I'll let you alone. But you must give me a slug and also your address."

"I don't know of any slugs," he moaned. "G.o.d, what kind of a day is this!"

Favoring his left leg, he wandered off and suddenly dove into a bas.e.m.e.nt under an elegant and restrained sign. I followed. We sat down at a table and a waiter immediately brought us hot meat and beer, although we hadn't ordered anything. Buba was s.h.i.+vering and his wet face turned blue. He pushed the plate away with revulsion and began to swallow the beer, both hands around the mug. The bas.e.m.e.nt was quiet and empty. Over the sparkling counter hung a white sign with gold letters reading, "Paid Service Only."

Buba raised his head from the beer and said pleadingly, "Can I go, Ivan? I can't... What's the point of all this talk?

Let me go, please."

I put my hand on his.

"What's happening to you, Peck? I searched for you. There is no address listed anywhere. I met you quite by accident, and I don't understand anything. How did you get involved in this mess? Can I help you possibly, with anything? Maybe we could --".

Suddenly he jerked his hand away in a rage.

"What an executioner," he hissed. "The devil lured me to that Oasis.... Stupid chatter, drivel. I have no slug, do you understand? I have one, but I won't give it to you. What'll I do then -- like Archimedes? Don't you have any conscience? Then don't torture me, let me go."

"I can't let you go," I said, "until I get the slug. And your address. We must talk."

"I don't want to talk to you, can't you understand? I don't want to talk to anyone about anything. I want to go home.

I won't give you my slug. What am I -- a factory? Give it to you and then chase all over town?"

I kept silent. It was clear that he hated me now. That if he thought he had the strength he would kill me and leave. But he knew that he did not have the strength.

"Sc.u.m," he said in a fury. "Why can't you buy one yourself? Don't you have the money? Here! Here!" he began to search convulsively in his pockets, throwing coppers and crumpled bills on the table. "Take it, there's plenty."

"Buy what? Where?"

"There's a d.a.m.ned jacka.s.s! It's... what is it? Hmm... how do you call it... Oh h.e.l.l!" he cried. "May you drop straight to h.e.l.l!"

He stuck his fingers into his s.h.i.+rt pocket and pulled out a flat plastic case. Inside it was a s.h.i.+ny metal tube, similar to a pocket radio local oscillator-mixer suba.s.sembly. "Here -- get fat!" He proffered me the tube. It was quite small, less than an inch long and a millimeter thick.

"Thank you," I said. "And how do I use it?"

Peck's eyes opened wide. I think he even smiled.

"Good G.o.d!" he said almost tenderly. "Can it be you really don't know?"

"I know nothing," I said.

"Well then, you should have said so from the start. And I thought you were tormenting me like a torturer. You have a radio? Insert it in place of the mixer, hang it, stand it somewhere in the bath, and go to!"

"In the tub?"

"Yes."

"It must be in the bath?"

"But yes! It is absolutely necessary that your body be immersed in water. In hot water. What an a.s.s you are!"

"And how about Devon?"

"The Devon goes in the water. About five tablets in the water and one orally. The taste is awful, but you won't regret it later. And one more thing, be sure to add bath salts to the water. And before you start, have a couple of gla.s.ses of something strong. This is required so that... how shall I say?

-- so you can loosen up, sort of."

"So," I said. "I got it. Now I've got everything." I wrapped the slug in a paper napkin and put it in my pocket. "So it's electric wave psychotechnics?"

"Good Lord, now what do you care about that?"

He was up already, pulling the hood over his head.

"No matter," I said. "How much do I owe you?"

"A trifle, nonsense! Let's go quickly... what the h.e.l.l are we losing time for?"

We went up into the street.

"You made the right decision," said Peck. What kind of world is this? Are we men in it? Trash is what it is and not a world. Taxi!" he yelled. "Hey, taxi!"

He shook in sudden excitement. "What possessed me to go to that Oasis... Oh no... from now on I'll go nowhere ...

nowhere."

"Let me have your address," I said.

"What do you want with my address?"

A taxi drew up and Buba tore at the door.

"Address," I said, grabbing him by the shoulder.

"What a dumbhead," said Buba.. "Suns.h.i.+ne Street, number eleven... Dumbhead!" he repeated, seating himself.

"I'll come to see you tomorrow."

He paid no more attention to me.

"Suns.h.i.+ne," he threw at the driver. "Through downtown, and hurry, for G.o.d's sake."

How simple, I thought, looking after his car. How simple everything turned out to be. And everything fits. The bath and Devon. Also the screaming radios, which irritated us so, and to which we never paid any attention. We simply turned them off. I took a taxi and set out for home.

But what if he deceived me, I thought. Simply wanted to be rid of me sooner. But I would determine that soon enough. He doesn't look like a runner, an agent, at all, I thought. After all, he is Peck. However, no, he is no longer Peck. Poor Peck.

You are no agent, you are simply a victim. You know where to buy this filth, but you are only a victim. I don't want to interrogate Peck, I don't want to shake him down like some punk. True, he is no longer Peck. Nonsense, what does that mean, that he is not Peck. He is Peck, and still I'll have to... Electric wave psychotechnics... But the s.h.i.+vers they're wave psychotechnics too.... Somehow, it's a bit too simple. I haven't pa.s.sed two days here yet, while Rimeyer has been living here since the uprising. We left him behind, and he had gone native and everyone was pleased with him, although in his latest reports he wrote that nothing like what we were looking for existed here. True, he has nervous exhaustion... and Devon on the floor. Also there is Oscar. Further, he did not beg me to leave him be, but simply pointed me in the direction of the Fishers.

I didn't meet anyone either in the front yard or in the hall.. It was almost five. I went to my rooms and called Rimeyer. A quiet female voice answered.

"How is the patient?" I asked.

"He is asleep. He shouldn't be disturbed."

"I won't do that. Is he better?"

"I told you he fell asleep. And don't call too often, please. The phone disturbs him."

"You will be with him all the time?"

"Till morning, at least. If you call again, I'll have the phone disconnected."

"Thank you," I said. "Just, please, don't leave him till morning, I'll not trouble you again."

I hung up and sat awhile in the big comfortable chair in front of the huge absolutely bare table. Then I took the slug out of my pocket and laid it in front of me. A small s.h.i.+ny tube, inconspicuous and completely harmless to all outward appearances, an ordinary electronic component. Such can be made by the millions. They should cost pennies.

"What's that you got there?" asked Len, right next to my He stood alongside and regarded the slug.

"Don't you know?" I asked.

"It's from a radio. I have one like it in my radio and it's breaking all the time."

I pulled my radio out of my pocket and extracted its mixer and laid it alongside the slug. The mixer looked like the slug, but it was not a slug.

"They are not the same," said Len. "But I have seen one of those gadgets, too."

"What gadget?"

"Like the one you have."

All at once, his face clouded over and he looked grim.

"Did you remember?"

"No, I didn't," he said. "I didn't remember anything."

"All right, then." I picked up the slug and inserted it in place of the mixer in the radio. Len grabbed me by the hand.

"Don't," he said.

"Why not?"

He didn't reply, eyeing the radio warily.

"What are you afraid of?" I asked.

"I'm not afraid of anything. Where did you get that idea?"

"Look in the mirror," I said. "You look as though you are afraid for me." I put the radio in my pocket.

"For you?" he said in astonishment.

"Obviously for me. Not for yourself, of course, though you are still scared of those... necrotic phenomena."

He looked sideways.

"Where did you get that idea," he said. "We're just playing."

I snorted in disdain.

"I am well acquainted with these games. Rut one thing I don't know: where in our time do necrotic phenomena come from?"

He glanced around and began backing up.

"I'm going," he said.

"O no," I said decisively. "Let's finish what we started.

Man to man. Don't think that I am altogether an ignoramus."

"What do you know?" He was already near the door and talking very quietly.

"More than you," I said severely. "But I don't want to shout it all over the house. If you want to talk, come on over here. Climb up on the desk and have yourself a seat. Believe me, I'm not a necrotic phenomenon."

He hesitated for a whole minute, and everything for which he hoped and everything of which he was afraid appeared and disappeared on his face. At last, he said, "Just let me close the door."

He ran into the living room, closed the door to the hallway, returned to close the study door tight, and approached me. His hands were in his pockets, the face white, contrasting with the protruding ears, which were red but cold.

"In the first place, you are a dope," I p.r.o.nounced, dragging him toward me and standing him between my knees. "Once there was a boy who lived in such a fear that his pants never dried out, not even when he was on a beach, and his ears were as cold as though they had been left in a refrigerator overnight. This boy trembled constantly and so well that when he grew up his legs were all wiggly, and his skin became like that of a plucked goose."

I was hoping that he would smile just once, but he listened very intently and very seriously inquired, "And what was he afraid of?"

"He had an elder brother, who was a nice fellow, but a great one for drinking. And, as often happens, the tipsy brother was not at all like the sober brother. He got to look very wild indeed. And when he really drank a lot, he got to look like a dead man. So this boy..."

A contemptuous smile appeared on Len's face.

"He sure found something to be scared of. When they are drunk is when they turn good."

"Who are they?" I asked immediately. "Mother? Vousi?"

"That's it. Mother is just the opposite -- in the morning when she gets up, she's always nasty, and then she drinks vermouth once, then twice, and that's it. Toward evening she is altogether nice because night is near."

"And at night?"

"At night that creep comes around," Len said reluctantly.