‘I suppose so,’ Janet said.
My son, Kongrosian thought. Maybe he could appear in my place. What a weird, morbid thought that was; he cringed from it, horrified that he had let it enter his mind.
Really, it demonstrated how ill he was. As if anyone could be interested, take seriously, the unfortunate quasi-musical noises which Plautus made … although perhaps in the largest, most embracing sense, they could be called ethnic.
‘Your current disappearance from the world,’ Janet Raimer said, ‘is a tragedy. As you say, it’s my job to find someone or something to fill the void — even though I know that’s impossible. I’ll make the try. Thank you, Richard. It was nice of you to talk to me, considering your condition.
I’ll right off now, and let you rest.’
Kongrosian said, ‘All I hope is that I haven’t contaminated you with my phobic odour.’ He broke the connection, then.
My last tie with the interpersonal world, he realized. I may never speak on the phone again; I feel my world contracting even more. God, where will it end? But the electroconvulsive shock will help; the shrinkage process will be reversed or at least stalled.
I wonder if I ought to try to get hold of Egon Superb, he said to himself. Despite the McPhearson Act. Hopeless; Superb no longer exists — the law has obliterated him, at least as far as his patients are concerned. Egon Superb may still exist as an individual, in essence, but the category ‘psychoanalyst’ has been eradicated as if it never existed.
But how I need him! If I could consult him just one more time — damn A.G. Chemie and their enormous lobby, their huge influence. Maybe I can get my phobic odour to spread to them.
Yes, I’ll put through a call to them, he decided. Ask about the possibility of the super detergent and at the same time contaminate them; they deserve it.
In the phone book he looked up the number of the Bay Area branch of A.G. Chemie, found it, and by psychokinesis dialled.
They’ll be sorry they forced passage of that act, Kongrosian said to himself as he listened to the phone connection being put through.
‘Let me talk to your chief psych-chemist,’ he said, when the A.G. Chemie switchboard had responded.
Presently a busy-sounding male voice came on to the line, the towel placed over the screen of the phone made it impossible for Kongrosian to see the man but he sounded young, competent, and thoroughly professional. ‘This is B Station. Merrill Judd speaking. Who is this and why do you have the vid portion blocked?’ The psych-chemist sounded irritable.
Kongrosian said, ‘You don’t know me, Mr Judd.’ And then he thought, Now it’s time to contaminate them.
Stepping close to the phone he whisked the towel from the screen.
‘Richard Kongrosian,’ the psych-chemist said, eyeing him. ‘Yes, I know you, know your artistry at least.’ He was a young man, with a competent no-nonsense expression, a thoroughly detached schizoid person indeed. ‘It’s an honour to meet you sir. What can I do for you?’
‘I need an antidote,’ Kongrosian said, ‘for an abominable Theodorus Nitz offensive body odour commercial. You know the one which begins: “In moments of great intimacy with ones we love, especially then does the danger of offending become acute,” and so forth.’ He hated even to think about it; his body odour seemed to become more powerful when he did so, if such was possible. He longed, then, for genuine human contact; he felt violently conscious of his encapsulation. ‘Do I scare you?’ he asked.
Regarding him with his wise, professional intensity, the A.G. Chemie official said, ‘I’m not worried. Naturally I’ve heard discussions of your endogenous psychosomatic ailment, Mr Kongrosian.’
‘Well,’ Kongrosian said tightly, ‘let me tell you that it’s exogenous; it’s the Nitz commercial that started it.’ It depressed him to realize that strangers, that the entire world was aware of — was talking about — his psychological situation.
‘The predisposition must have been there,’ Judd said, ‘for the Nitz commercial to so influence you.’
‘On the contrary,’ Kongrosian said. ‘And as a matter of fact I’m going to sue the Nitz Agency, sue them for millions — I’m totally prepared to start litigation. But that’s beside the point right now. What can you do, Judd? You smell it by now, don’t you? Admit you do, and then we can explore the possibilities of therapy. I’ve been seeing a psychoanalyst, Dr Egon Superb, but thanks to your cartel that’s over, now.’
‘Hmm,’ Judd said.
‘Is that the best you can do? Listen, it’s impossible for me to leave this hospital room. The initiative has got to come from you. I’m appealing to you. My situation is desperate. If it worsens — ‘
‘An intriguing request,’ Judd said. ‘I’ll have to ponder for a while. I can’t answer you immediately, Mr Kongrosian. How long ago did this contamination by the Nitz commercial take place?’
‘Approximately one month ago.’
‘And before that?’
‘Vague phobias. Anxieties. Depression, mostly. I’ve had ideas of reference, too, but so far I’ve managed to abort them. Obviously, I’m struggling against an insidious schizophrenic process that’s gradually eroding my faculties, blunting their acuity.’ He felt glum.
‘Perhaps I’ll drop over to the hospital.’
‘Ah,’ Kongrosian said, pleased. That way I can be certain of contaminating you, he said to himself. And you, in turn, will carry the contamination back to your company, to the entire malign cartel which is responsible for shutting down Dr Superb’s practice. ‘Please do,’ he said aloud. ‘I’d very much like to consult you tête-à-tête. The sooner the better. But I warn you: I won’t be responsible for the outcome. The risk is entirely yours.’
‘Risk? I’ll take the risk. What about this afternoon? I have a free hour. Tell me which neuropsychiatric hospital you’re in, and if it’s local — ‘ Judd searched for a pen and tablet of paper.
They made good time to Tenner. Late in the afternoon they set down at the ‘copter field on the outskirts of the town; there was plenty of time to make the drive by road to Kongrosian’s home in the surrounding hills.
‘You mean,’ Molly said, ‘we can’t land at his place? We have to — ‘
‘We hire a cab,’ Nat Flieger said. ‘You know.’
‘I know,’ Molly said. ‘I’ve read about them. And it’s always a local rustic who acquaints you with the local gossip, all of which can be put in a gnat’s eye.’ She closed her book and rose to her feet. ‘Well, Nat, maybe you can find out from the cab driver what you want to know. About Kongrosian’s secret basement of horrors.’
Jim Planck said huskily, ‘Miss Dondoldo — ‘ He grimaced. ‘I think a lot of Leo but honest to god — ‘
‘You can’t stand me?’ she inquired, raising her eyebrows.
‘Why, I wonder why, Mr Planck.’
‘Cut it out,’ Nat said as he lugged his gear from the ‘copter and set it down on the damp ground. The air smelled of rain; it was heavy and clinging and he instinctively rebelled against it, against the innate unhealthiness of it. ‘This must be grand for asthmatics,’ he said, looking around. Kongrosian, of course, would not meet them; it was their job entirely to find his place — and him. They would be lucky, in fact, if he received them at all; Nat was well aware of that.
Stepping gingerly from the ‘copter (she was wearing sandals) Molly said, ‘It smells funny.’ She took a deep breath, her bright cotton blouse swelling. ‘Ugh. Like rotting vegetation.’
‘That’s what it is,’ Nat said as he helped Jim Planck with his gear.
‘Thanks,’ Planck murmured. ‘I believe I got it, Nat. How long are we going to be up here?’ He looked as if he wanted to re-enter the ‘copter and start right back; Nat saw on the man’s face overt panic. ‘This area,’ Planck said, ‘always makes me think of — like in the kids’ book about the three billygoats gruff. You know.’ His voice grated. ‘Trolls.’
Molly stared at him and then sharply laughed.
A cab rolled up to greet them, but it was not driven by a local rustic; it was a twenty-year-old autonomic, with a mute self-guidance system. Presently they had their recording and personal equipment aboard and the auto-cab was rolling from the field, on its way to Richard Kongrosian’s home, the address in the instruction-well of the cab acting as the tropism.
‘I wonder,’ Molly said, watching the old-fashioned houses and stores of the town pass by, ‘what they do for entertainment up here?’
Nat said, ‘Maybe they come down to the ‘copter field and watch the outsiders who occasionally wander in.’ Like us, he thought, seeing people along the sidewalk here and there glance up curiously.
We’re the entertainment, he decided. There certainly did not appear to be much else; the town looked as it must have before the fracas of 1980; the stores had tinted glass and plastic fronts, now chipped and in disrepair beyond belief.