“I’ll be okay.” He shook his head, as if trying to clear it, still bewildered. “The spider Mercer gave the chickenhead, Isidore; it probably was artificial, too. But it doesn’t matter. The electric things have their lives, too. Paltry as those lives are.”
Iran said, “You look as if you’ve walked a hundred miles.”
“It’s been a long day.” He nodded.
“Go get into bed and sleep.”
He stared at her, then, as if perplexed. “It is over, isn’t it?” Trustingly he seemed to be waiting for her to tell him, as if she would know. As if hearing himself say it meant nothing; he had a dubious attitude toward his own words; they didn’t become real, not until she agreed.
“It’s over,” she said.
“God, what a marathon assignment,” Rick said. “Once I began on it there wasn’t any way for me to stop; it kept carrying me along, until finally I got to the Batys, and then suddenly I didn’t have anything to do. And that — ” He hesitated, evidently amazed at what he had begun to say. “That part was worse,” he said. “After I finished. I couldn’t stop because there would be nothing left after I stopped. You were right this morning when you said I’m nothing but a crude cop with crude cop hands.”
“I don’t feel that any more,” she said. “I’m just damn glad to have you come back home where you ought to be.” She kissed him and that seemed to please him; his face lit up, almost as much as before — before she had shown him that the toad was electric.
“Do you think I did wrong?” he asked. “What I did today?
“No.”
“Mercer said it was wrong but I should do it anyhow. Really weird. Sometimes it’s better to do something wrong than right.”
“It’s the curse on us,” Iran said. “That Mercer talks about.”
“The dust?” he asked.
“The killers that found Mercer in his sixteenth year, when they told him he couldn’t reverse time and bring things back to life again. So now all he can do is move along with life, going where it goes, to death. And the killers throw the rocks; it’s they who’re doing it. Still pursuing him. And all of us, actually. Did one of them cut your check, where it’s been bleeding?”
“Yes,” he said wanly.
“Will you go to bed now? If I set the mood organ to a 670 setting?”
“What does that bring about?” he asked.
“Long deserved peace,” Iran said.
He got to his feet, stood painfully, his face drowsy and confused, as if a legion of battles had ebbed and advanced there, over many years. And then, by degrees, he progressed along the route to the bedroom. “Okay,” he said. “Long deserved peace.” he stretched out on the bed, dust sifting from his clothes and hair onto the white sheets.
No need to turn on the mood organ, Iran realized as she pressed the button which made the windows of the bedroom opaque. The gray light of day disappeared.
On the bed Rick, after a moment, slept.
She stayed there for a time, keeping him in sight to be sure he wouldn’t wake up, wouldn’t spring to a sitting position in fear as he sometimes did at night. And then, presently, she returned to the kitchen, reseated herself at the kitchen table.
Next to her the electric toad flopped and rustled in its box; she wondered what it “ate,” and what repairs on it would run. Artificial flies, she decided.
Opening the phone book she looked in the yellow paces under animal accessories, electric; she dialed and when the saleswoman answered, said, “I’d like to order one pound of artificial flies that really fly around and buzz, please.”
“Is it for an electric turtle, ma’am?”
“A toad,” she said.
“Then I suggest our mixed assortment of artificial crawling and flying bugs of all types including — ”
“The flies will do,” Iran said. “Will you deliver? I don’t want to leave my apartment; my husband’s asleep and I want to be sure he’s all right.”
The clerk said, “For a toad I’d suggest also a perpetually renewing puddle, unless it’s a horned toad, in which case there’s a kit containing sand, multicolored pebbles, and bits of organic debris. And if you’re going to be putting it through its feed cycle regularly I suggest you let our service department make a periodic tongue adjustment. In a toad that’s vital.”
“Fine,” Iran said. “I want it to work perfectly. My husband is devoted to it.” She gave her address and hung up.
And, feeling better, fixed herself at last a cup of black, hot coffee.