But something about Buster Friendly irritated John Isidore, one specific thing. In subtle, almost inconspicuous ways, Buster ridiculed the empathy boxes. Not once but many times. He was, in fact, doing it right now.
” — no rock nicks on me,” Buster prattled away to Amanda Werner. “And if I’m going up the side of a mountain I want a couple of bottles of Budweiser beer along!” The studio audience laughed, and Isidore heard a sprinkling of handclaps. “And I’ll reveal my carefully documented exposé from up there — that exposé coming exactly ten hours from now!”
“Ent me, too, dahiink! ” Amanda gushed. “Tek me wit you! I go alonk en ven dey trow a rock et us I protek you! ” Again the audience howled, and John Isidore felt baffled and impotent rage seep up into the back of his neck. Why did Buster Friendly always chip away at Mercerism? No one else seemed bothered by it; even the U.N. approved. And the American and Soviet police had publicly stated that Mercerism reduced crime by making citizens more concerned about the plight of their neighbors. Mankind needs more empathy, Titus Corning, the U. N. Secretary General, had declared several times. Maybe Buster is jealous, Isidore conjectured. Sure, that would explain it; he and Wilbur Mercer are in competition. But for what?
Our minds, Isidore decided. They’re fighting for control of our psychic selves; the empathy box on one hand, Buster’s guffaws and off-the-cuff jibes on the other. I’ll have to tell Hannibal Sloat that, he decided. Ask him if it’s true; he’ll know.
When he had parked his truck on the roof of the Van Ness Pet Hospital he quickly carried the plastic cage containing the inert false cat downstairs to Hannibal Sloat’s office. As he entered, Mr. Sloat glanced up from a parts-inventory page, his gray, seamed face rippling like troubled water. Too old to emigrate, Hannibal Sloat, although not a special, was doomed to creep out his remaining life on Earth. The dust, over the years, had eroded him; it had left his features gray, his thoughts gray; it had shrunk him and made his legs spindly and his gait unsteady. He saw the world through glasses literally dense with dust. For some reason Sloat never cleaned his glasses. It was as if he had given up; he had accepted the radioactive dirt and it had begun its job, long ago, of burying him. Already it obscured his sight. In the few years he had remaining it would corrupt his other senses until at last only his bird-screech voice would remain, and then that would expire, too.
“What do you have there?” Mr. Sloat asked.
“A cat with a short in its power supply.” Isidore set the cage down on the document-littered desk of his boss.
“Why show it to me?” Sloat demanded. “Take it down in the shop to Milt.” However, reflexively, he opened the cage and tugged the false animal out. Once, he had been a repairman. A very good one.
Isidore said, “I think Buster Friendly and Mercerism are fighting for control of our psychic souls.”
“If so,” Sloat said, examining the cat, “Buster is winning.”
“He’s winning now,” Isidore said, “but ultimately he’ll lose.”
Sloat lifted his bead, peered at him. “Why?”
“Because Wilbur Mercer is always renewed. He’s eternal. At the top of the hill he’s struck down; he sinks into the tomb world but then he rises inevitably. And us with him. So we’re eternal, too.” He felt good, speaking so well; usually around Mr. Sloat he stammered.
Sloat said, “Buster is immortal, like Mercer. There’s no difference.”
“How can he he? He’s a man.”
“I don’t know,” Sloat said. “But it’s true. They’ve never admitted it, of course.”
“Is that how come Buster Friendly can do forty-six hours of show a day?”
“That’s right,” Sloat said.
“What about Amanda Werner and those other women?”
“They’re immortal, too.”
“Are they a superior life form from another system?”
“I’ve never been able to determine that for sure,” Mr. Sloat said, still examining the cat. He now removed his dust-filmed glasses, peered without them at the half-open mouth. “As I have conclusively in the case of Wilbur Mercer,” he finished almost inaudibly. He cursed, then, a string of abuse lasting what seemed to Isidore a full minute. “This cat,” Sloat said finally, “isn’t false. I knew sometime this would happen. And it’s dead.” He stared down at the corpse of the cat. And cursed again.
Wearing his grimy blue sailcloth apron, burly pebble-skinned Milt Borogrove appeared at the office door. “What’s the matter?” he said. Seeing the cat he entered the office and picked up the animal.
“The chickenhead,” Sloat said, “brought it in.” Never before had he used that term in front of Isidore.
“If it was still alive,” Milt said, “we could take it to a real animal vet. I wonder what it’s worth. Anybody got a copy of Sidney’s? ”
“D-doesn’t y-y-your insurance c-c-cover this?” Isidore asked Mr. Sloat. Under him his legs wavered and he felt the room begin to turn dark maroon cast over with specks of green.
“Yes,” Sloat said finally, half snarling. “But it’s the waste that gets me. The loss of one more living creature. Couldn’t you tell, Isidore? Didn’t you notice the difference?”
“I thought,” Isidore managed to say, “it was a really good job. So good it fooled me; I mean, it seemed alive and a job that good — ”
“I don’t think Isidore can tell the difference,” Milt said mildly. “To him they’re all alive, false animals included. He probably tried to save it.” To Isidore he said, “What did you do, try to recharge its battery? Or locate a short in it?
“Y — yes,” Isidore admitted.
“It probably was so far gone it wouldn’t have made it anyhow,” Milt said. “Let the chickenhead off the hook, Han. He’s got a point; the fakes are beginning to be darn near real, what with those disease circuits they’re building into the new ones. And living animals do die; that’s one of the risks in owning them. We’re just not used to it because all we see are fakes.”
“The goddamn waste,” Sloat said.
“According to M-mercer,” Isidore pointed Out, “a-all life returns. The cycle is c-c-complete for a-a-animals, too. I mean, we all ascend with him, die — ”
“Tell that to the guy that owned this cat,” Mr. Sloat said.
Not sure if his boss was serious Isidore said, “You mean I have to? But you always handle vidcalls.” He had a phobia about the vidphone and found making a call, especially to a stranger, virtually impossible. Mr. Sloat, of course, knew this.
“Don’t make him,” Milt said. “I’ll do it.” He reached for the receiver. “What’s his number?”
“I’ve got it here somewhere.” Isidore fumbled in his work smock pockets.
Sloat said, “I want the chickenhead to do it.”
“I c-c-can’t use the vidphone,” Isidore protested, his heart laboring. “Because I’m hairy, ugly, dirty, stooped, snaggletoothed, and gray. And also I feel sick from the radiation; I think I’m going to die.”
Milt smiled and said to Sloat, “I guess if I felt that way I wouldn’t use the vidphone either. Come on, Isidore; if you don’t give me the owner’s number I can’t make the call and you’ll have to.” He held out his hand amiably.
“The chickenhead makes it,” Sloat said, “or he’s fired.” He did not look either at Isidore or at Milt; he glared fixedly forward.
“Aw come on,” Milt protested.
Isidore said, “I d-d-don’t like to be c-c-called a chickenhead. I mean, the d-d-dust has d-d-done a lot to you, too, physically. Although maybe n-n-not your brain, as in m-my case.” I’m fired, he realized. I can’t make the call. And then all at once he remembered that the owner of the cat had zipped off to work. There would be no one home. “I g-guess I can call him,” he said, as he fished out the tag with the information on it.
“See? ” Mr. Sloat said to Milt. “He can do it if he has to.”
Seated at the vidphone, receiver in hand, Isidore dialed.
“Yeah,” Milt said, “but he shouldn’t have to. And he’s right; the dust has affected you; you’re damn near blind and in a couple of years you won’t be able to hear.”
Sloat said, “It’s got to you, too, Borogrove. Your skin is the color of dog manure.”
On the vidscreen a face appeared, a mitteleuropaische some-what careful-looking woman who wore her hair in a tight bun. “Yes?” she said.
“M-m-mrs. Pilsen?” Isidore said, terror spewing through him; he had not thought of it naturally but the owner had a wife, who of course was home. “I want to t-t-talk to you about your c-c-c-c-c-c — ” He broke off, rubbed his chin tic-wise. “Your cat.”
“Oh yes, you picked up Horace,” Mrs. Pilsen said. “Did it turn out to be pneumonitis? That’s what Mr. Pilsen thought.”