He looked me over again.
“I wouldn’t say that. I probably did see you somewhere.”
“Saw me somewhere!” I said in desperation. “I am Ivan Zhilin. Could it be you have completely forgotten me?”
His hand holding the glass quivered almost imperceptibly, and that was all.
“No, friend,” he said, “forgive me, please, but I don’t remember you.”
“And you don’t remember the ‘Tahmasib’ or Iowa Smith?”
“This heartburn has really got to me today,” he informed the bartender. “Let me have some soda, Con.”
The bartender, who had listened with curiosity, poured him a soda.
“Bad day, today, Con,” he said. “Can you imagine, two automates failed on me today.”
The bartender shook his head and sighed.
“The manager is bitching,” continued Buba, “called me on the carpet and bawled me out. I am going to quit that place. I told him to go to hell and he fired me.”
“Complain to the union,” the bartender advised.
“To hell with them.” He drank his soda and wiped his mouth with the palm of his hand. He did not look at me.
I sat as though spat upon, forgetting completely what it was I wanted Buba for. I needed Buba, not Peck — that is, I needed Peck too. But not this one. This was not Peck, this was some strange and repulsive Buba, and I watched in horror as he sucked up the second glass of alcohol and again set to shoveling spoonfuls of sugar into himself. His face effloresced with red spots, and he kept gagging and listening to the bartender as he animatedly recounted the latest football exploits. I wanted to cry out, “Peck, what has happened to you? Peck, you used to hate all this!” I put my hand on his shoulder and said imploringly, “Peck, dear friend, hear me out, please.”
He shied away.
“What’s the matter, friend?” His eyes were now completely unseeing. “I am not Peck, I am Buba, do you understand? You are confusing me with someone else, there isn’t any Peck here…. So what did the Rhinos do then, Con?”
I reminded myself where I was, and forced myself to understand that there was no more Peck, and that there was a Buba, here, an agent of a criminal organization, and this was the only reality, while Peck Xenai was a mirage — a memory which must be quickly extirpated if I intended to press on with my work.
“Hold on, Buba,” I said. “I want to talk business to you.”
He was quite drunk by now.
“I don’t talk business at the bar,” he announced. “And anyway I am through with work. Done. I have no more business of any kind. You can apply to the city hall, friend. They’ll help you out.”
“I am applying to you, not the city hall,” I said. “Will you listen to me!”
“You I hear all the time, as it is. To the detriment of my health.”
“My business is quite simple,” I said. “I need a slug.”
He shuddered violently.
“Are you out of your mind, pal?”
“You should be ashamed,” said the bartender. “Right out in front of people… you have lost all sense of decency.”
“Shut up,” I told him.
“You be quiet,” the barman said menacingly. “It must be some time since you’ve been busted? Watch your step or you’ll get exported.”
“I don’t give a damn about the exportation,” I said insolently. “Don’t stick your snoot in other people’s business.”
“Lousy sluggard,” said the bartender.
He was visibly incensed, but spoke in a low voice. “A slug he wants. I’ll call an officer right now and he’ll give you a slug.”
Buba slid off the stool and hurriedly hobbled toward the door.
I left off with the bartender and hurried after him. He shot out into the rain, and forgetting to cover himself with his cape, started to look around in search of a taxi. I caught up with him and grasped him by the sleeve.
“What in God’s name do you want from me?” he said miserably. “I’ll call the police.”
“Peck,” I said. “Come out of it, Peck. I am Ivan Zhilin, and you must remember me.”
He kept looking around and wiping the streaming water from his face with the palm of his hand. He looked pitiful and run down, and I, trying to suppress my irritation, kept insisting to myself that this was my Peck, priceless Peck, irreplaceable Peck, good, intelligent, joyful Peck, kept trying to remember him as he was in front of the Gladiator’s control console, and I couldn’t because I couldn’t imagine him anywhere except at the bar over a glass of alcohol.
“Taxi,” he screeched, but the car flew by, full of people.
“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 God’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. “God, what kind of a day is this!”
Favoring his left leg, he wandered off and suddenly dove into a basement 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 shivering 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 basement 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.
“Scum,” 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 damned jackass! It’s… what is it? Hmm… how do you call it… Oh hell!” he cried. “May you drop straight to hell!”
He stuck his fingers into his shirt pocket and pulled out a flat plastic case. Inside it was a shiny metal tube, similar to a pocket radio local oscillator-mixer subassembly. “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 God!” 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 ass 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 glasses 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?”