There was no response. Kongrosian was completely alone; he no longer had any contact with other life.
I’ve got to get out of here, he decided. Seek help — I’m not getting any help, here; they’ve been unable to arrest the illness-process.
I’ll go back to Jenner.
See my son.
There was no point in seeking out Dr Superb or any other medical man, chemically-oriented or not. The period of seeking therapy was over. And now — a new period. What did it consist of? He did not know, yet. In time he would know, however. Assuming that he lived through it. And how could he do that when, for all intents, he was already dead? ‘That’s it, he said to himself. I’ve died. And yet I’m still alive.
It was a mystery. He did not understand it.
Perhaps, he thought, what I must seek then is a rebirth.
Effortlessly — after all, no one could see him — he made his way from his room and down the corridor to the stairs, down the stairs and out the side entrance of Franklin Aimes Hospital. Presently he was walking along the sidewalk of an unfamiliar street, somewhere in a hilly section of San Francisco, surrounded by vastly high apartment buildings, many of them dating from before World War Three.
By avoiding stepping on any cracks of cement pavement he cancelled, for the time being, the trail of noxious odour which otherwise he would have left in his wake.
I must be getting better, he decided. I’ve found at least a temporary ritual of purification to balance my phobic body odour. And except for the fact that he was still invisible. How am I going to play the piano this way? he asked himself. This means, evidently, the end of my career.
And then all at once he remembered Merrill Judd, the chemist with A.G. Chemie. Judd was supposed to be going to help me, he recalled; I completely forgot about it, in the excitement of becoming invisible.
I can go by auto-cab to A.G. Chemie.
He hailed an auto-cab which was passing, but it failed to see him. Disappointed, he watched it go on by. I thought I was still visible to purely electronic scanning devices, he thought. Evidently not, however.
Can I walk to an A.G. Chemie branch? he asked himself.
I guess I’ll have to. Because of course I can’t board the ordinary pubtrans; it wouldn’t be fair to the others.
I’ve got quite a task for Judd, he realized. Not only must the man eradicate my phobic body odour but he has to make me invisible once more. Discouragement filled Kongrosian’s mind. They can’t do it, he realized. It’s too much; it’s hopeless. I’ll just have to keep on trying for rebirth.
When I see Judd I’ll ask him about it, see what A.G. Chemie can do for me in that line. After all, next to Karp they’re the most powerful economic syndrome in the entire USEA. I’d have to go back to the USSR to find a greater economic entity.
A.G. Chemie is so proud of its chemical therapy; let’s see if they have a drug which promotes rebirth.
He was walking along, thinking those thoughts while avoiding stepping on the cracks in the pavement, when all at once he realized that something lay in his path. An animal, flat, platter-shaped, orange with black spots, its antennae waving. And, at the same instant, a thought formed in his brain.
‘Rebirth … yes, a new life. Begin over, on another world.’
Mars!
Kongrosian halted and said, ‘You’re right.’ It was a papoola, there on the sidewalk before him. He looked around and saw, sure enough, a jalopy jungle parked not far off, the shiny jalopies sparkling in the sunlight. There, in the centre of the lot, in a little office building, sat the operator of the lot, and Kongrosian moved step by step towards him. The papoola followed, and as it followed it communicated with him.
‘Forget A.G. Chemie … they can’t do anything for you.’
Right, Kongrosian thought. It’s entirely too late for that.
If Judd had come up with something right away it would have been different. But now. And then he realized something.
The papoola could see him.
Or at least it could sense him with some organ or apperception, in some dimension or other. And — it did not object to his smell.
‘Not at all,’ the papoola was telling him. ‘You smell perfectly wonderful to me. I have no complaints at all, absolutely none.’
Kongrosian halting, said, ‘Would it be that way on Mars? They could see me — or at least perceive me — and I wouldn’t offend them?’
‘There are no Theodoras Nitz commercials on Mars,’ the papoola’s thoughts came to him, forming in his eager mind.
‘You will gradually shed your contamination, there. In that pure, virgin environment. Enter the office, Mr Kongrosian, and speak to Mr Miller, our sales representative. He is eager to serve you. He exists to serve you.’
‘Yes,’ Kongrosian said, and opened the door of the office.
There was, ahead of him, another customer waiting; the salesman was filling out a contract form. A thin, tall, balding customer who looked ill-at-ease and restless; he glanced towards Kongrosian and then moved a step away.
The smell had offended him.
‘Forgive me,’ Kongrosian mumbled in apology.
‘Now, Mr Strikerock,’ the salesman was saying to this previous customer, ‘if you’ll sign here — ‘ He turned the form around and held up a fountain pen.
The customer, in a spasm of muscular activity, signed, then stepped back, visibly shaking from the tension.
‘It’s a big moment,’ he said to Kongrosian. ‘When you decide to do this. I’d never have had the courage on my own, but my psychiatrist suggested it. Said it was the best alternative for me.’
‘Who’s your psychiatrist?’ Kongrosian said, naturally interested.
‘There’s only one. These days. Dr Egon Superb.’
‘He’s mine, too,’ Kongrosian exclaimed. ‘A darn good man; I was just talking to him.’
The customer now studied Kongrosian’s face intently.
He said then very painstakingly and slowly, ‘You’re the man on the telephone. You called Dr Superb; I was in his office.’
The salesman for the jalopy jungle spoke up. ‘Mr Strikerock, if you want to step outside with me I’ll go over the handling instructions with you, just to be on the safe side. And you can pick out whichever jalopy you want.’ To Kongrosian he said, ‘I’ll be able to help you in just a moment Please be patient, if you will.’
Kongrosian stammered, ‘C-can you see me?’
‘I can see everybody,’ the salesman said. ‘Given tune enough.’ And he left the office with Strikerock, then.
‘Calm yourself,’ the papoola said, within Kongrosian’s mind; it had remained in the office, evidently to keep him company. ‘All is well. Mr Miller will take good care of you and very, very sooooon.’ It crooned to him, lulling him.
‘Alll is welllll,’ it intoned.
Suddenly the customer, Mr Strikerock, re-entered the office. To Kongrosian he said, ‘Now I remember who you are! You’re the famous concert pianist who’s always playing for Nicole at the White House; you’re Richard Kongrosian.’
‘Yes,’ Kongrosian admitted, pleased to be recognized.
Just to be on the safe side, however, he moved carefully back from Strikerock, so as not to offend him. ‘I’m amazed,’ he said, ‘that you can see me; just recently I’ve become invisible … in fact that’s what I was discussing with Egon Superb on the phone. Currently, I’m seeking rebirth. That’s why I’m going to emigrate; there’s no hope for me here on Earth, obviously.’
‘I know how you feel,’ Strikerock said, nodding. ‘Just recently I quit my job; I’ve got no ties to anyone here, any more, not to my brother nor to — ‘ He paused, his face dark.
‘To anyone. I’m leaving alone, with no one.’
‘Listen,’ Kongrosian said, on impulse, ‘Why don’t we emigrate together? Or — does my phobic body odours offend you too much?’
Strikerock did not seem to know what he meant. ‘Emigrate together? You mean go in for a land-stake as partners?’
‘I have plenty of money,’ Kongrosian said. ‘From my concert appearances; I can finance both of us easily.’ Money was certainly the least of his worries. And maybe he could help this Mr Strikerock, who, after all, had just quit his job.
‘Maybe we could work something out,’ Strikerock said thoughtfully, nodding slowly up and down. ‘It’s going to be lonely as hell on Mars; we wouldn’t have any neighbours except perhaps simulacra. And I’ve seen enough of them as it is to last me the rest of my life.’
The salesman, Mr Miller, returned to the office, looking a trifle perturbed.
‘We need only one jalopy between us,’ Strikerock said to him. ‘Kongrosian and I are emigrating together, as partners.’
Shrugging philosophically, Mr Miller said, ‘I’ll show you two a slightly larger model, then. A family-sized model.’ He held the door of the office open and Kongrosian and Chic Strikerock stepped out on to the lot. ‘You two know each other?’ he asked.