To keep himself awake, he turned on the TV. Presently the warm, familiar being, the presence of the First Lady, flowed into existence and began to permeate the room.
‘ … and at our musical tonight,’ she was saying, ‘we will have a saxophone quartet which will play themes from Wagner’s operas, in particular my favourite, die Meistersinger. I believe we will all find that a deeply rewarding and certainly an enriching experience to cherish. And, after that, I have arranged to bring you once again an old favourite of yours, the world-renowned cellist, Henri LeClerc, in a programme of Jerome Kern and Cole Porter.’ She smiled, and at his pile of reference books, Ian Duncan smiled back.
I wonder how it would be to play at the White House, he said to himself. To perform before the First Lady. Too bad I never learned to play any kind of musical instrument. I can’t act, write poems, dance or sing — nothing. So what hope is there for me? Now, if I had come from a musical family, if I had had a father or a mother to teach me …
Glumly, he scratched a few notes on the rise of the French Christian-Fascist Party of 1975. And then, drawn as always to the TV set, he put his pen down and turned his chair so that he faced the set. Nicole was now exhibiting a piece of Delft tile which she had picked up, she explained, in a little shop in Schweinfurt, Germany. What lovely clear colours it had … he watched, fascinated,’ as her strong, slim fingers caressed the shiny surface of the baked enamel tile.
‘See the tile,’ Nicole was murmuring in her husky voice. ‘Don’t you wish you had a tile like that? Isn’t it lovely?’
‘Yes,’ Ian Duncan said.
‘How many of you would like someday to see such a tile?’
Nicole asked. ‘Raise your hands.’
Ian raised his hand hopefully.
‘Oh, a whole lot of you,’ Nicole said, smiling her intimate radiant smile. ‘Well, perhaps later we will have another tour of the White House. Would you like that?’
Hopping up and down in his chair, Ian said, ‘Yes, I’d like that!’
On the TV screen she was smiling directly at him, it seemed. And so he smiled back. And then, reluctantly, feeling a great weight descend over him, he at last turned back to his reference books. Back to the harsh realities of his daily endless life.
Against the window of his apartment something bumped and a voice called to him thinly, ‘Ian Duncan, I don’t have much time!’
Whirling, he saw outside in the night darkness a shape drifting, an egg-like construction that hovered. Within it a man waved at him energetically, still calling. The egg gave off a dull putt-putt noise, its jets idling as the man kicked open the hatch of the vehicle and lifted himself out.
Are they after me already on this quiz? Ian Duncan asked himself. He stood up, feeling helpless. So soon … I’m not ready, yet.
Angrily, the man in the vehicle spun the jets until their steady white exhaust-firing met the surface of the building; the room shuddered and bits of plaster broke away. The window itself collapsed as the heat of the jets crossed it.
Through the gap exposed the man yelled once more, trying to attract Ian Duncan’s dulled faculties.
‘Hey, Duncan! Hurry up! I have your buddy already; he’s on his way in another ship!’ The man, elderly, wearing an expensive natural fibre blue pinstripe suit which was slightly old-fashioned, lowered himself with dexterity from the hovering egg-shaped vehicle and dropped feet-first into the room. ‘We have to get going if we’re to make it. You don’t remember me? Neither did Al.’
Ian Duncan stared at him, wondering who he was and who Al was.
‘Mama’s psychologists did a good job of working you over,’ the elderly man panted. ‘That Bethesda — it must be quite a place.’ He came towards Ian, caught hold of him by the shoulder. ‘The NP’s are shutting down all the jalopy jungles; I have to beat it to Mars and I’m taking you along with me. Try to pull yourself together; I’m Loony Luke you don’t remember me now but you will after we’re all on Mars and you see your buddy Al again. Come on!’
Luke propelled him towards the gap in the wall of the room, the opening which had once been a window, and towards the vehicle — it was called a jalopy, Ian realized — drifting beyond.
‘Okay,’ Ian said, wondering what he should take with him. What would he need on Mars? Toothbrush, pyjamas, a heavy coat? He looked frantically around his apartment, one last inspection of it.
Far off, police sirens sounded.
Luke scrambled back into the jalopy, and Ian followed, taking hold of the elderly man’s extended hand. The floor of the jalopy, he discovered to his surprise crawled with bright orange bug-like creatures whose antennae waved at him as he sprawled among them. Papoolas, he remembered. Or something like that.
You’ll be all right now, the papoolas were thinking in unison.
Don’t worry; Loony Luke got you away in time, just barely in time. Relax.
‘Yes,’ Ian agreed. He lay back against the side of the jalopy and relaxed, as the ship shot upwards into the night emptiness and the new planet which lay ahead.
13
‘I certainly would like to leave the White House,’ Richard Kongrosian said peevishly to the NP men guarding him. He felt irritable and also apprehensive; he stood as far from Commissioner Pembroke as possible. It was Pembroke, he knew, who was in charge.
Wilder Pembroke said, ‘Mr Judd, the A.G. Chemie psychchemist, will be here any minute. So please be patient, Mr Kongrosian.’ His voice was calm but not soothing; it had a hard edge which made Kongrosian even more unstrung.
‘This is intolerable,’ Kongrosian said. ‘You guarding me like this, watching everything I do. I simply can’t tolerate being watched: I have paranoia sensitiva; don’t you realize that?’
There was a knock at the door of the room. ‘Mr Judd to see Mr Kongrosian,’ a White House attendant called in Pembroke opened the door of the room, admitting Merrill Judd, who entered briskly, official briefcase in hand. Mr Kongrosian. Glad to meet you face to face, at last.’
‘Hello, Judd,’ Kongrosian murmured, feeling sullen about everything which was going on around him.
‘I have here with me some new, experimental medication for you,’ Judd informed him, opening the briefcase and reaching within. ‘The imipramine hcl — twice a day, 50 mg each. That’s the orange tablet. The brown tablet is our new methabyretinate oxide, 100 mg per — ‘
‘Poison,’ Kongrosian broke in.
‘Pardon?’ Alertly, Judd cupped his ear.
‘I won’t take it; this is part of a carefully laid plot to kill me.’ There was no doubt of it in Kongrosian’s mind. He had realized it as soon as Judd had arrived with the official A.G. Chemie briefcase.
‘Not at all,’ Judd said, glancing sharply at Pembroke. ‘I assure you. We’re trying to help you. It’s our job to help you, sir.’
‘Is that why you kidnapped me?’ Kongrosian said.
‘I did not kidnap you,’ Judd said cautiously. ‘Now as to — ‘
‘You’re all working together,’ Kongrosian said. And he had an answer for it; he had been preparing for the exact moment when the time was right. Summoning his psychokinetic talent he lifted both his arms and directed the power of his attention towards the psych-chemist Merrill Judd.
The psych-chemist rose from the floor, dangled in air; still clutching his official A.G. Chemie briefcase, he gaped at Kongrosian and Pembroke. Eyes protruding, he tried to speak, and then Kongrosian whisked him at the closed door of the room. The door, wooden and hollow-core splintered as Judd swept against it and through it; he disappeared from Kongrosian’s sight then. Only Pembroke and his NP men remained in the room with him.
Clearing his throat, Wilder Pembroke said huskily, ‘Perhaps — we should see how badly he’s hurt.’ As he started towards the ruined door he added, over his shoulder, ‘I would think that A.G. Chemie will be somewhat upset by this. To put it mildly.’
‘The hell with A.G. Chemie,’ Kongrosian said. ‘I want my own doctor; I don’t trust anybody you bring in here. How do I know he was actually even from A.G. Chemie? He was probably an impostor.’
‘In any case,’ Pembroke said, ‘you hardly have to worry about him, now.’ Gingerly, he opened the remains of the wooden door.
‘Was he truly from A.G. Chemie?’ Kongrosian asked, following him out into the corridor.
‘You talked to him on the phone yourself; it was you who called him into this initially.’ Pembroke seemed angry and agitated, now, as he searched the corridor for a sign of Judd. ‘Where is he?’ he demanded. ‘What in the name of God did you do with him, Kongrosian?’