Again Fred spun the tape forward a full hour.
“–this guy,” Luckman was saying, manicuring a box full of grass, hunched over it as Arctor sat across from him, more or less watching, “appeared on TV claiming to be a world-famous impostor. He had posed at one time or another, he told the interviewer, as a great surgeon at Johns Hopkins Medical College, a theoretical submolecular high-velocity particle-research physicist on a federal grant at Harvard, as a Finnish novelist who’d won the Nobel Prize in literature, as a deposed president of Argentina married to–”
“And he got away with all that?” Arctor asked. “He never got caught?”
“The guy never posed as any of those. He never posed as anything but a world-famous impostor. That came out later in the L.A. _Times_–they checked up. The guy pushed a broom at Disneyland, or had until he read this autobiography about this world-famous impostor–there really was one–and he said, ‘Hell, I can pose as all those exotic dudes and get away with it like he did,’ and then he decided, ‘Hell, why do that; I’ll just pose as another impostor.’ He made a lot of bread that way, the _Times_ said. Almost as much as the real world-famous impostor. And he said it was a lot easier.”
Barris, off to himself in a corner winding string, said, “We see impostors now and then. In our lives. But not posing as subatomic physicists.”
“Narks, you mean,” Luckman said. “Yeah, narks. I wonder how many narks we know. What’s a nark look like?”
“It’s like asking, What’s an impostor look like?” Arctor said. “I talked one time to a big hash dealer who’d been busted with ten pounds of hash in his possession. I asked him what the nark who busted him looked like. You know, the–what do they call them?–buying agent that came out and posed as a friend of a friend and got him to sell him some hash.”
“Looked,” Barris said, winding string, “just like us.”
“_More_ so,” Arctor said. “The hash-dealer dude–he’d already been sentenced and was going in the following day– he told me, ‘They have longer hair than we do.’ So I guess the moral of that is, Stay away from guys looking the same as us.”
“There are female narks,” Barris said.
“I’d like to meet a nark,” Arctor said. “I mean knowingly. Where I could be positive.”
“Well,” Barris said, “you could be positive when he claps the cuffs on you, when that day comes.”
Arctor said, “I mean, do narks have friends? What sort of social life do they have? Do their wives know?”
“Narks don’t have wives,” Luckman said. “They live in caves and peep out from under parked cars as you pass. Like trolls.”
“What do they eat?” Arctor said.
“People,” Barris said.
“How could a guy do that?” Arctor said. “Pose as a nark?”
“_What?_” both Barris and Luckman said together.
“Shit, I’m spaced,” Arctor said, grinning. ” ‘Pose as a nark’–wow.” He shook his head, grimacing now.
Staring at him, Luckman said, “POSE AS A NARK? _POSE AS A NARK?_”
“My brains are scrambled today,” Arctor said. “I better go crash.”
At the holos, Fred cut the tape’s forward motion; all the cubes froze, and the sound ceased.
“Taking a break, Fred?” one of the other scramble suits called over to him.
“Yeah,” Fred said. “I’m tired. This crap gets to you after a while.” He rose and got out his cigarettes. “I can’t figure out half what they’re saying, I’m so tired. Tired,” he added, “of listening to them.”
“When you’re actually down there with them,” a scramble suit said, “it’s not so bad; you know? Like I guess you were– on the scene itself up until now, with a cover. Right?”
“I would never hang around with creeps like that,” Fred said. “Saying the same things over and over, like old cons. Why do they do what they do, sitting there shooting the bull?”
“Why do we do what we do? This is pretty damn monotonous, when you get down to it.”
“But we have to; this is our job. We have no choice.”
“Like the cons,” a scramble suit pointed out. “We have no choice.”
Posing as a nark, Fred thought. What does that mean? Nobody knows . . .
Posing, he reflected, as an impostor. One who lives under parked cars and eats dirt. Not a world-famous surgeon or novelist or politician: nothing that anyone would care to hear about on TV. No life that anyone in their right mind . . .
I resemble that worm which crawls through dust,
Lives in the dust, eats dust
Until a passerby’s foot crushes it.
Yes, that expresses it, he thought. That poetry. Luckman must have read it to me, or maybe I read it in school. Funny what the mind pops up. Remembers.
Arctor’s freaky words still stuck in his mind, even though he had shut off the tape. I wish I could forget it, he thought. I wish I could, for a while, forget _him_.
“I get the feeling,” Fred said, “that sometimes I know what they’re going to say before they say it. Their exact words.”
“It’s called _déjà vu_,” one of the scramble suits agreed. “Let me give you a few pointers. Run the tape ahead over longer break-intervals, not an hour but, say, six hours. Then run it back if there’s nothing until you hit something. Back, you see, rather than forward. That way you don’t get into the rhythm of their flow. Six or even eight ahead, then big jumps back . . . You’ll get the hang of it pretty soon, you’ll get so you can sense when you’ve got miles and miles of nothing or when somewhere you’ve got something useful.”
“And you won’t really listen at all,” the other scramble suit said, “until you do actually hit something. Like a mother when she’s asleep–nothing wakes her, even a truck going by, until she hears her baby cry. That wakes her–that alerts her. No matter how faint that cry is. The unconscious is selective, when it learns what to listen for.”
“I know,” Fred said. “I’ve got two kids.”
“Boys?”
“Girls,” he said. “Two little girls.”
“That’s allll riiight,” one of the scramble suits said. “I have one girl, a year old.”
“No names please,” the other scramble suit said, and they all laughed. A little.
Anyhow, there is an item, Fred said to himself, to extract from the total tape and pass along. That cryptic statement about “posing as a nark.” The other men in the house with Arctor–it surprised them, too. When I go in tomorrow at three, he thought, I’ll take a print of that–aud alone would do–and discuss it with Hank, along with what else I obtain between now and then.
But even if that’s all I’ve got to show Hank, he thought, it’s a beginning. Shows, he thought, that this around-theclock scanning of Arctor is not a waste.
It shows, he thought, that I was right.
That remark was a slip. Arctor blew it.
But what it meant he did not yet know.
But we will, he said to himself, find out. We will keep on Bob Arctor until he drops. Unpleasant as it is to have to watch and listen to him and his pals all the time. Those pals of his, he thought, are as bad as he is. How’d I ever sit around in that house with them all that time? What a way to live a life; what, as the other officer said just now, an endless nothing.
Down there, he thought, in the murk, the murk of the mind and the murk outside as well; murk everywhere. Thanks to what they are: that kind of individual.
Carrying his cigarette, he walked back to the bathroom, shut and locked the door, then, from inside the cigarette package, he got out ten tabs of death. Filling a Dixie cup with water, he dropped all ten tabs. He wished he had brought more tabs with him. Well, he thought, I can drop a few more when I get through work, when I get back home. Looking at his watch, he tried to compute how long that would be. His mind felt fuzzy; how the hell long will it be? he asked himself, wondering what had become of his time sense. Watching the holos has fucked it up, he realized. I can’t tell what time it is at all any more.
I feel like I’ve dropped acid and then gone through a car wash, he thought. Lots of titanic whirling soapy brushes coming at me; dragged along by a chain into tunnels of black foam. What a way to make a living, he thought, and unlocked the bathroom door to go back–reluctantly–to work.
When he turned on the tape-transport once more, Arctor was saying, “–as near as I can figure out, God is dead.”
Luckman answered, “I didn’t know He was sick.”