Now Wait for Last Year

FOUR

That evening as Bruce Himmel tromped up the rickety wooden stairs to Chris Plout's conapt in the dismal Mexican section of Tijuana, a female voice said from the darkness behind him, 'Hello, Brucie. It looks as if this is an all-TF&D night; Simon Ild is here, too.'

On the porch the woman caught up with him. It was sexy, sharp-tongued Katherine Sweetscent; he had run into her at Plout's gatherings a number of times before and so it hardly surprised him to see her now. Mrs Sweetscent wore a somewhat modified costume from that which she employed on the job; this also failed to surprise him. For tonight's mysterious undertaking Kathy had arrived naked from the waist up, except of course, for her nipples. They had been – not gilded in the strict sense – but rather treated with a coating of living matter, sentient, a Martian life form, so that each possessed a consciousness. Hence each nipple responded in an alert fashion to everything going on.

The effect on Himmel was immense.

Behind Kathy Sweetscent ascended Simon Ild; in the dim light he had a vacant expression on his sappy, pimply, uneducated face. This was a person whom Himmel could do without; Simon – unfortunately – reminded him of nothing so much as a bad simulacrum of himself. And there was nothing for him quite so unbearable.

The fourth person gathered here in the unheated, low-ceilinged room of Chris Plout's littered, stale-food-smelling conapt was an individual whom Himmel at once recognized – recognized and stared at, because this was a man known to him through pics on the back of book jackets. Pale, with glasses, his long hair carefully combed, wearing expensive, tasteful Io-fabric clothing, seemingly a trifle ill-at-ease, stood the Taoist authority from San Francisco, Marm Hastings, a slight man but extremely handsome, in his mid-forties, and, as Himmel knew, quite well-to-do from his many books on the subject of oriental mysticism. Why was Hastings here? Obviously to sample JJ-180; Hastings had a reputation for essaying an experience with every hallucinogenic drug that came into being, legal or otherwise. To Hastings this was allied with religion.

But as far as Himmel knew, Marm Hastings had never shown up here in Tijuana at Chris Plout's conapt. What did this indicate about JJ-180? He pondered as he stood off in a corner, surveying the goings-on. Hastings was occupied in examining Plout's library on the subject of drugs and religion; he seemed uninterested in the others present, even contemptuous of their existence. Simon Ild, as usual, curled up on the floor, on a pillow, and lit a twisted brown marijuana cigarette; he puffed vacantly, waiting for Chris to appear. And Kathy Sweetscent – she crouched down, stroking reflexively at her hocks, as if grooming herself flywise, putting her slender, muscular body into a state of alertness. Teasing it, he decided, by deliberate, almost yogalike efforts.

Such physicalness disturbed him; he glanced away. It was not in keeping with the spiritual emphasis of the evening. But no one could tell Mrs Sweetscent anything; she was nearly autistic.

Now Chris Plout, wearing a red bathrobe, his feet bare, entered from the kitchen; through dark glasses he peered to see if it was time to begin. 'Marm,' he said. 'Kathy, Bruce, Simon, and I, Christian; the five of us. An adventure into the unexplored by means of a new substance which has just arrived from Tampico aboard a banana boat... I hold it here.' He extended his open palm; within lay the five capsules. 'One for each of us – Kathy, Bruce, Simon, Marm, and me, Christian; our first journey of the mind together. Will we all return? And will we be translated, as Bottom says?'

Himmel thought. As Peter Quince says to Bottom, actually.

Aloud, he said, "Bottom, thou art translated."'

'Pardon?' Chris Plout said, frowning.

'I'm quoting,' Himmel explained.

'Come on, Chris,' Kathy Sweetscent said crossly, 'give us the jink and let's get started.' She snatched – successfully – one of the capsules from Chris's palm. 'Here I go,' she said. 'And without water.'

Mildly, Marm Hastings said with his quasi-English accent, 'Is it the same, I wonder, taken without water?' Without movement of his eye muscles he clearly succeeded in making a survey of the woman; there was that sudden stricture of his body which gave him away. Himmel felt outraged; wasn't this whole affair designed to raise them all above the flesh?

'It's the same,' Kathy informed him. 'Everything's the same, when you break through to absolute reality; it's all one vast blur.' She then swallowed, coughed. The capsule was gone.

Reaching, Himmel took his. The others followed.

'If the Mole's police caught us,' Simon said, to no one in particular, 'we'd all be in the Army, serving out at the front.'

'Or working in vol-labe camps at Lilistar,' Himmel added. They were all tense, waiting for the drug to take effect; it always ran this way, these short seconds before the jink got to them. 'For good old Freneksy, as it's translated into English. Bottom, thou art translated as Freneksy.' He giggled shakily. Katherine Sweetscent glared at him.

'Miss,' Marm Hastings said to her in an unperturbed voice, 'I wonder if I haven't met you before; you do seem familiar. Do you spend much time in the Bay area? I have a studio and architect-designed home in the hills of West Marin, near the ocean ... we hold seminars there often; people come and go freely. But I would remember you. Oh yes.'

Katherine Sweetscent said, 'My damn husband – he wouldn't ever let me. I'm self-supporting – I'm more than economically independent – and yet I have to put up with the rasping little noises and squeaks he makes whenever I try to do something original on my own.' She added, 'I'm an antique buyer, but old things become boring; I'd love to—'

Marm Hastings interrupted, speaking to Chris Plout, 'Where does this JJ-180 originate, Plout? You said Germany, I think. But you see, I have a number of contacts in pharmaceutical institutes, both public and private, in Germany, and none of them has so much as mentioned anything called JJ-180.' He smiled, but it was a sharply formed astute smile, demanding an answer.

Chris shrugged. That's the poog as I get it, Hastings. Take it or leave it.' He was not bothered; he knew, as they all did, that under these circumstances no brief of warranty was incumbent on him.

Then it's not actually German,' Hastings said, with a faint nod. 'I see. Could this JJ-180, or Frohedadrine as it's also called ....ould it possibly originate entirely off Terra?'

After a pause Chris said, 'I dunno, Hastings. I dunno.'

To all of them Hastings said in his educated, severe voice, There have been cases of illegal non-terrestrial drugs before. None of them of any importance. Derived from Martian flora, mostly, and occasionally from Ganymedean lichens. I suppose you've heard; you all seem informed on this topic, as you should be. Or at least—' His smile grew, but his eyes, behind his rimless glasses, were codlike. 'At the very least you seem satisfied as to the pedigree of this JJ-180 for which you've paid this man fifty US dollars.'

'I'm satisfied,' Simon Ild said in his stupid way. 'Anyhow it's too late; we paid Chris and we've all taken the caps.'

'True,' Hastings agreed reasonably. He seated himself in one of Chris's tottering easy chairs. 'Does anyone feel any change yet? Please speak up as soon as you do.' He glanced at Katherine Sweetscent. 'Your nipples seem to be watching me, or is that just my imagination? In any case it makes me decidedly uncomfortable.'

'As a matter of fact,' Chris Plout said in a strained voice, 'I feel something, Hastings.' He licked his lips, trying to wet them. 'Excuse me. I – to be frank, I'm here alone. None of you are with me.'

Marm Hastings studied him.

'Yes,' Chris went on. 'I'm all alone in my conapt. None of you even exist. But the books and chairs, everything else exists. Then who'm I talking to? Have you answered?' He peered about, and it was obvious that he could not see any of them; his gaze passed by them all.

'My nipples are not watching you or anybody else,' Kathy Sweetscent said to Hastings.

'I can't hear you,' Chris said in panic. 'Answer!'

'We're here,' Simon Ild said, and sniggered.

'Please,' Chris said, and now his voice was pleading. 'Say something: it's just shadows. It's – lifeless. Nothing but dead things. And it's only starting – I'm scared of how it's going on; it's still happening.'

Marm Hastings laid his hand on Chris Plout's shoulder.

The hand passed through Plout.

'Well, we've gotten our fifty dollars' worth,' Kathy Sweet-scent said in a low voice, void of amusement. She walked toward Chris, closer and closer.

'Don't try it,' Hastings said to her in a gentle tone.

'I will,' she said. And walked through Chris Plout. But she did not reappear on the other side. She had vanished; only Plout remained, still bleating for someone to answer him, still flailing the air in search of companions he could no longer perceive.

Isolation, Bruce Himmel thought to himself. Each of us cut off from all the others. Dreadful. But – it'll wear off. Won't it?

As yet he did not know. And for him it had not even started.

'These pains,' UN Secretary General Gino Molinari rasped, lying back on the large, red, hand-wrought couch in the living room of Virgil Ackerman's Wash-35 apartment, 'generally become most difficult for me at night.' He had shut his eyes; his great fleshy face sagged forlornly, the grimy jowls wobbling as he spoke. 'I've been examined; Dr Teagarden is my chief GP. They've made infinite tests, with particular attention directed toward malignancy.'

Eric thought. The man's speaking by rote; it's not his natural speech pattern. This has become that ingrained in his mind, this preoccupation; he's gone through this ritual a thousand times, with as many physicians. And – he still suffers.

There's no malignancy,' Molinari added. 'That seems to have been authoritatively verified.' His words constituted a satire of pompous medical diction, Eric realized suddenly. The Mole had immense hostility toward doctors, since they had failed to help him. 'Generally the diagnosis is acute gastritis. Or spasms of the phyloric valve. Or even an hysterical re-enactment of my wife's labor pains, which she experienced three years ago.' He finished, half to himself, 'Shortly before her death.'

'What about your diet?' Eric asked.

The Mole opened his eyes wearily. 'My diet. I don't eat, doctor. Nothing at all. The air sustains me; didn't you read that in the homeopapes? I don't need food, like you simple schulps do. I'm different.' His tone was urgently, acutely embittered.

'And it interferes with your duties?' Eric asked.

The Mole scrutinized him. 'You think it's psychosomatic, that outmoded pseudo science that tried to make people morally responsible for their ailments?' He spat in anger; his face writhed and now the flesh was no longer hanging and loose – it was stretched taut, as if ballooned out from within. 'So I can escape my responsibilities? Listen, doctor; I still have my responsibilities – and the pain. Can that be called secondary neurotic psychological gain?'

'No,' Eric admitted. 'But anyhow I'm not qualified to deal with psychosomatic medicine; you'd have to go to—'

'I've seen them,' the Mole said. All at once he dragged himself to his feet, stood swaying, facing Eric. 'Get Virgil back here; there's no point in your wasting your time interrogating me. And anyhow I don't choose to be interrogated. I don't care for it.' He strode unsteadily toward the door, hitching up his sagging khaki trousers as he went.

Eric said, 'Secretary, you could have your stomach removed, you realize. At any time. And an artiforg planted in replacement. The operation is simple and almost always successful. Without examining your case records I shouldn't say this, but you may have to have your stomach replaced one of these days. Risk or no risk.' He was certain that Molinari would survive; the man's fear was palpably phobic.

'No,' Molinari said quietly. 'I don't have to; it's my choice. I can die instead.'

Eric stared at him.

'Sure,' Molinari said. 'Even though I'm the UN Secretary General. Hasn't it occurred to you that I want to die, that these pains, this developing physical – or psychosomatic – illness is a way out for me? I don't want to go on. Maybe. Who knows? What difference does it make, to anybody? But the hell with it.' He tore open the hall door. 'Virgil,' he boomed in a surprisingly virile voice. 'For chrissake, let's pour and get this party started.' Over his shoulder he said to Eric, 'Did you know this was a party? I bet the old man told you it was a serious conference for solving Terra's military, political, and economic problems. In one half hour.' He grinned, showing his big, white teeth.

'Frankly,' Eric said, 'I'm glad to hear it's a party.' The session with Molinari had been as difficult for him as it had been for the Secretary. And yet – he had an intuition that Virgil Ackerman would not let it end there. Virgil wanted something done for the Mole; he desired to see the man's distress eased, and for a good, practical reason.

The collapse of Gino Molinari would signify an end to Virgil's possession of TF&D. Management of Terra's economic syndromes no doubt held priority for Freneksy's officials; their agenda had probably been drawn up in detail.

Virgil Ackerman was a shrewd businessman.

'How much,' Molinari asked suddenly, 'does the old fruit Pay you?'

'V-very well,' Eric said, taken by surprise.

Molinari, eyeing him, said, 'He's talked to me about you. Before this get-together. Sold me on you, how good you are. Because of you he's still alive long after he ought to be dead, all that crap.' They both smiled. 'What's your choice in liquor, doctor? I like anything. And I like fried chops and Mexican food and spare ribs and fried prawns dipped in horse-radish and mustard ... I treat my stomach kind.'

'Bourbon,' Eric said.

A man entered the room, glanced at Eric. He had a gray, grim expression and Eric realized that this was one of the Mole's Secret Service men.

'This is Tom Johannson,' the Mole explained to Eric. 'He keeps me alive; he's my Dr Eric Sweetscent. But he does it with his pistol. Show doc your pistol, Tom; show him how you can nam anybody, any time you want, at any distance. Plug Virgil as he comes across the hall, right in the fnigging heart; then doc can paste a new heart in its place. How long does it take, doc? Ten, fifteen minutes?' The Mole laughed loudly. And then he motioned to Johannson. 'Shut the door.'

His bodyguard did so; the Mole stood facing Eric Sweetscent.

'Listen, doctor. Here's what I want to ask you. Suppose you began to perform an org-trans operation on me, taking out my old stomach and putting in a new one, and something went wrong. It wouldn't hurt, would it? Because I'd be out. Could you do that?' He watched Eric's face. 'You understand me, don't you? I see you do.' Behind them, at the closed door, the bodyguard stood impassively, keeping everyone else out, preventing them from hearing. This was for Eric alone. In utmost confidence.

'Why?' Eric said, after a time. Why not simply use Johannson's loger-magnum pistol? If this is what you want...

'I don't know why, actually,' the Mole said. 'No one particular reason. The death of my wife, perhaps. Call it the responsibility I have to bear....nd which I'm not managing to discharge properly, at least according to many people. I don't agree; I think I'm succeeding. But they don't understand all the factors in the situation.' He admitted, then, 'And I'm tired.'

'It – could be done,' Eric said truthfully.

'And you could do it?' The man's eyes blazed, keen and fixed on him. Sizing him up as each second ticked away.

'Yes, I could do it.' He held, personally, an odd view regarding suicide. Despite his code, the ethical under-structure of medicine, he believed – and it was based on certain very real experiences in his own life – that if a man wanted to die he had the right to die. He did not possess an elaborated rationalization to justify this belief; he had not even tried to construct one. The proposition, to him, seemed self-evident. There was no body of evidence which proved that life in the first place was a boon. Perhaps it was for some persons; obviously it was not for others. For Gino Molinari it was a nightmare. The man was sick, guilt-ridden, saddled with an enormous, really hopeless task: he did not have the confidence of his own people, the Terran population, and he did not enjoy the respect or trust or admiration of the people of Lilistar. And then, above and beyond all that, lay the personal consideration, the events in his own private life, starting with the sudden, unexpected death of his wife and ending up with the pains in his belly. And then, too, Eric realized with acute comprehension, there was probably more. Factors known only to the Mole. Deciding factors which he did not intend to tell.

'Would you do such a thing?' Molinari asked.

After a long, long pause Eric said, 'Yes I would. It would be an agreement between the two of us. You'd ask for it and I'd give it to you and it would end there. It would be no one's business but our own.'

'Yes.' The Mole nodded and on his face relief showed; he seemed now to relax a little, to experience some peace. 'I can see why Virgil recommended you.'

'I was going to do it to myself, once,' Eric said. 'Not so long ago.'

The Mole's head jerked, he stared at Eric Sweetscent with a look so keen that it cut through his physical self and into that which lay at the deepest, most silent part of him. 'Really?' the Mole said then.

'Yes.' He nodded. So I can understand, he thought to himself, can empathize with you even without having to know the exact reasons.

'But I,' the Mole said, 'want to know the reasons.' It was so close to a telepathic reading of his mind that Eric felt stunned; he found himself unable to look away from the penetrating eyes and he realized, then, that it had been no parapsycho-logical talent on the Mole's part: it had been swifter and stronger than that.

The Mole extended his hand; reflexively, Eric accepted it. And, once he had done so, he found the grip remaining; the Mole did not release his hand but tightened his grip so that pain flew up Eric's arm. The Mole was trying to see him better, trying, as Phyllis Ackerman had done not so long ago, to discover everything that could be discovered about him. But out of the Mole's mind came no glib, flip theories; the Mole insisted on the truth, and articulated by Eric Sweetscent himself. He had to tell the Mole what it had been; he had no choice.

Actually, in his case it had been a very small matter. Something which if told – and he had never been so foolish as to tell it, even to his professional headbasher – would have proved absurd, would have made him appear, and rightly so, an idiot. Or, even worse, mentally deranged.

It had been an incident between himself and—

'Your wife,' the Mole said, staring at him, never taking his eyes from him. And still the steady grip of his hand.

'Yes.' Eric nodded. 'My Ampex video tapes ... of the great mid-twentieth century comedian Jonathan Winters.'

The pretext for his first invitation of Kathy Lingrom had been his fabulous collection. She had expressed a desire to see them, to drop by his apt – at his invitation – to witness a few choice shots.

The Mole said, 'And she read something psychological into your having the tapes. Something "meaningful" about you.'

'Yes.' Eric nodded somberly.

After Kathy had sat curled up one night in his living room, as long-legged and smooth as a cat, her bare breasts faintly green from the light coating of polish she had given them (in the latest style), watching the screen fixedly and, of course, laughing – who could fail to? – she had said contemplatively, 'You know, what's great about Winters was his talent for role-playing. And, once in a role, he was submerged; he seemed actually to believe in it.'

'Is that bad?' Eric had said.

'No. But it tells me why you gravitate to Winters.' Kathy fondled the damp, cold glass of her drink, her long lashes lowered in thought. 'It's that residual quality in him that could never be submerged in his role. It means you resist life, the role that you play out – being an org-trans surgeon, I suppose. Some childish, unconscious part of you won't enter human society.'

'Well, is that bad?' He had tried to ask jokingly, wanting – even then – to turn this pseudopsychiatric, ponderous discussion to more convivial areas... areas clearly defined in his mind as he surveyed her pure, bare, pale green breasts flicking with their own luminosity.

'It's deceitful,' Kathy said.

Hearing that, then, something in him had groaned, and something in him groaned now. The Mole seemed to hear it, to take note.

'You're cheating people,' Kathy said. 'Me, for instance.' At that point – mercifully – she changed the topic. For that he felt gratitude. And yet – why did it bother him so?

Later, when they had married, Kathy primly requested that he keep his tape collection in his study and not out in the shared portion of their conapt. The collection vaguely vexed her, she said. But she did not know – or anyhow did not say – why. And when in the evenings he felt the old urge to play a section or tape, Kathy complained.

'Why?' the Mole asked.

He did not know; he had not then and did not now understand it. But it had been an ominous harbinger; he saw her aversion but the significance of it eluded him, and this inability to grasp the meaning of what was taking place in his married life made him deeply uneasy.

Meanwhile, through Kathy's intercession, he had been hired by Virgil Ackerman. His wife had made it possible for him to take a notable leap in the hierarchy of econ and sose – economic and social – life. And of course he felt gratitude toward her; how could he not? His basic ambition had been fulfilled.

The means by which it had been accomplished had not struck him as overpoweringly important: many wives helped their husbands up the long steps in their careers. And vice versa. And yet—

It bothered Kathy. Even though it had been her idea.

'She got you your job here?' the Mole demanded, scowling. 'And then after that she held it against you? I seem to get the picture, very clear.' He plucked at a front tooth, still scowling, his face dark.

'One night in bed—' He stopped, feeling the difficulty of going on. It had been too private. And too awfully unpleasant.

'I want to know,' the Mole said, 'the rest of it.'

He shrugged. 'Anyhow – she said something about being "tired of the sham we're living." The "sham," of course, being my job.'

Lying in bed, naked, her soft hair curling about her shoulders – in those days she had worn it longer – Kathy had said, 'You married me to get your job. And you're not striving on your own; a man should make his own way.' Tears filled her eyes, and she flopped over on her face to cry – or appear, anyhow – to cry.

'"Strive"?' he had said, baffled.

The Mole interrupted, 'Rise higher. Get a better job. That's what they mean when they say that.'

'But I like my job,' he answered.

'So you're content,' Kathy said, in a muffled, bitter voice, 'to appear to be successful. When you really aren't.' And then, sniffling and snuffling, she added, 'And you're terrible in bed.'

He got up and went into the living room of their conapt and sat alone for a time and then, instinctively, he made his way into his study and placed one of his treasured Johnny Winters tapes into the projector. For a while he sat in misery watching Johnny put on one hat after another and become a different person under each. And then—

At the doorway Kathy appeared, smooth and naked and slim, her face contorted. 'Have you found it?'

'Found what?' He shut the tape projector off.

'The tape,' she stated, 'that I destroyed.'

He stared at her, unable to take in what he had heard.

'A few days ago.' Her tone, defiant, shrilled at him. 'I was all alone here in the conapt; I felt blue – you were busy doing some drafk nothing thing for Virgil – and I put on a reel; I put it on exactly right; I followed all the instructions. But it did something wrong. So it got erased.'

The Mole grunted somberly. 'You were supposed to say "It doesn't matter."'

He had known that; known it then, knew it now. But in a strangled, thick voice he had said, 'Which tape?'

'I don't remember.'

His voice rose; it escaped him. 'Goddam it, which tape?' He ran to the shelf of tapes; grabbed the first box; tore it open; carried it at once to the projector.

'I knew,' Kathy said, in a harsh, bleak voice as she watched him with withering contempt, 'that your —— tapes meant more to you than I do or ever did.'

'Tell me which tape!' he pleaded. 'Please?'

'No, she wouldn't say,' the Mole murmured thoughtfully. That would be the entire point. You'd have to play every one of them before you could find out. A couple days of playing tapes. Clever dame; damn clever.'

'No,' Kathy said in a low, embittered, almost frail voice. Now her face was peaked with hatred for him. 'I'm glad I did it. You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to ruin all of them.'

He stared at her. Numbly.

'You deserve it,' Kathy said, 'for holding back and not giving me all your love. This is where you belong, scrabbling like an animal, a panic-ridden animal. Look at you! Contemptible – trembling and about to burst into tears. Because someone ruined one of your INCREDIBLY important tapes.'

'But,' he said, 'it's my hobby. My lifetime hobby.'

'Like a kid pulling its pud,' Kathy said.

They – can't be replaced. I have the only copies of some of them. The one from the Jack Paar show—'

'So what? You know something, Eric? Do you know, really know, why you like watching men on tape?'

The Mole grunted; his heavy, fleshy, middle-aged face flinched as he listened.

'Because,' Kathy said, 'you're a fairy.'

'Ouch,' the Mole murmured, and blinked.

'You're a repressed homosexual. I sincerely doubt if you're aware of it on a conscious level, but it's there. Look at me; look. Here I am; a perfectly attractive woman, available to you any time you want me.'

The Mole said, aside, wryly, 'And at no cost.'

'And yet you're in here with these tapes and not in the bedroom screwbling with me. I hope – Eric, I hope to God I ruined one that—' She turned away from the door then. 'Good night. And have fun playing with yourself.' Her voice – actually and unbelievably – had become controlled, even placid.

From a crouched position he bolted toward her. Reached for her as she retreated smooth and white and naked down the hall, her back to him. He grabbed her, grabbed firm hold, sank his fingers into her soft arm. Spun her around. Blinking, startled, she faced him.

'I'm going to—' He broke off. I'm going to kill you, he had started to say. But already in the unstirred depths of his mind, slumbering beneath the frenzy of his hysterical antics, a cold and rational fraction of him whispered its ice-God voice: Don't say it. Because if you do, then she's got you. She'll never forget. As long as you live she'll make you suffer. This is a woman that one must not hurt because she knows techniques; she knows how to hurt back. A thousandfold. Yes, this is her wisdom, this knowing how to do this. Above all other things.

'Let – go – of – me.' Her eyes blazed smokily.

He released her.

After a pause, while she rubbed her arm, Kathy said, 'I want that collection of tapes out of this apartment by tomorrow night. Otherwise we're finished, Eric.'

'Okay,' he said, nodding.

'And then,' Kathy said, 'I'll tell you what else I want. I want you to start looking for a higher paying job. At another company. So I won't run into you every time I turn around. And then... we'll see. Possibly we can stay together. On a new basis, one fairer to me. One in which you make some attempt to pay attention to my needs in addition to your own.' Astonishingly, she sounded perfectly rational and in control of herself. Remarkable.

'You got rid of the tapes?' the Mole asked him.

He nodded.

'And you spent the next few years directing your efforts toward controlling your hatred for your wife.'

Again he nodded.

'And the hatred for her,' Mole said, 'became hatred for yourself. Because you couldn't stand being afraid of one small woman. But a very powerful person – notice I said "person" not "woman."'

'Those low blows,' Eric said. 'Like her erasing my tape—'

'The low blow,' the Mole interrupted, 'was not her erasing the tape. It was her refusing to tell you which one she had erased. And her making it so clear that she enjoyed the situation. If she had been sorry – but a woman, a person, like that; they never become sorry. Never.' He was silent for a time. 'And you can't leave her.'

'We're fused,' Eric said. The damage is done.' The mutually inflicted pain delivered at night without the possibility of anyone intervening, overhearing and coming to help. Help, Eric thought. We both need help. Because this will go on, get worse, corrode us further and further until at last, mercifully—

But that might take decades.

So Eric could understand Gino Molinari's yearning for death. He, like the Mole, could envision it as a release – the only dependable release that existed ... or appeared to exist, given the ignorance, habit patterns, and foolishness of the participants. Given the timeless human equation.

In fact he felt a considerable bond with Molinari.

'One of us,' the Mole said, with perception, 'suffering unbearably on the private level, hidden from the public, small and unimportant. The other suffering in the grand Roman public manner, like a speared and dying god. Strange. Completely opposite. The microcosm and the macro.'

Eric nodded.

'Anyhow,' the Mole said, releasing Eric's hand and slapping him on the shoulder, I'm making you feel bad. Sorry, Dr Sweetscent; let's drop the topic.' To his bodyguard he said, 'Open the door now. We're done.'

'Wait,' Eric said. But then he did not know how to go on, to say it.

The Mole did it for him. 'How would you like to be attached to my staff?' Molinari said abruptly, breaking the silence. 'It can be arranged; technically you'd be drafted into military service.' He added, 'You may take it for granted you'd be my personal physician.'

Trying to sound casual, Eric said, 'I'm interested.'

'You wouldn't be running into her all the time. This might be a beginning. A start toward prying the two of you apart.'

'True.' He nodded. Very true. And very attractive, when thought of that way. But the irony – this consisted of precisely that which Kathy had goaded him toward all these years. 'I'd have to talk it over with my wife,' he began, and then flushed. 'Virgil, anyhow,' he muttered. 'In any case. He'd have to approve.'

Regarding him with brooding severity, the Mole said in a slow, dark voice. There is one drawback. You would not see so much of Kathy; true. But by being with me you'd see a great deal of our—' He grimaced. The ally. How do you suppose you'd enjoy yourself surrounded by 'Starmen? You might find yourself having a few spasms of the gut late at night yourself ... and perhaps worse – other – psychosomatic disorders, some you may not anticipate, despite your profession.'

Eric said, 'It's bad enough for me late at night as it is. This way I might have some company.'

'Me?' Molinari said. 'I wouldn't be company, Sweetscent, for you or anybody else. I'm a creature that's flayed alive at night. I retire at ten o'clock and then I'm back up, usually by eleven; I—' He broke off, meditatively. 'No, night is not a good time for me; not at all.'

It could clearly be seen in the man's face.