stuff?” he said faintly, referring to the Coffiest, Thiamax, and Bredd. He shot down the bourbon and shuddered. “Long time no see, Jack,” I said. “Ooh,” he groaned. “Just what I needed. Why do cliches add that extra something to a hangover?” He tried to stand up to his full height of thirty-five inches and collapsed back onto the cot, his legs dangling. “My aching back,” he said. “I think I’m going to enter a monastery. I’m living up to my reputation, and it’s killing me by inches. Ooh, that tourist gal from Nova Scotia! It’s springtime, isn’t it? Do you think that explains anything? Maybe she has Eskimo blood.” “It’s late fall,” I said. “Urp. Maybe she doesn’t have a calendar . . . pass me that Coffiest.” No “please.” And no “thank you.” Just a cool, take-it-for-granted that the world was his for the asking. He had changed. “Think you can do some work this morning?” I asked, a little stiffly. “I might,” he said indifferently. “This is Schocken’s party after all. Say, what the hell ever became of you?” “I’ve been investigating,” I said. “Seen Kathy?” he asked. “That’s a wonderful girl you have there, Mitch.” His smile might have been reminiscent. All I was sure of was that I didn’t like it-not at all. “Glad you enjoyed her,” I said flatly. “Drop in any time.” He sputtered into his Coffiest and said, carefully setting it down: “What’s that work you mentioned?” I showed him my copy. He gulped the Thiamax and began to steady on his course as he read. “You got it all fouled up,” he said at last, scornfully. “I don’t know Learoyd, Holden, and McGill from so many holes in the ground, but like hell they were selfless explorers. You don’t get pulled to Venus. You get pushed.” He sat brooding, cross-legged. “We’re assuming they got pulled,” I said. “If you like, we’re trying to convince people that they got pulled. What we want from you is sense-impressions to sprinkle the copy with. Just talking off the front of your face, how do you resonate to it?” “With nausea,” he said, bored. “Would you reserve me a shower, Mitch? Ten minutes fresh, one hundred degrees. Damn the cost. You too can be a celebrity. All you have to do is be lucky like me.” He swung his short legs over the edge of the cot and contem-
plated his toes, six inches clear of the floor. “Well,” he sighed, “I’m getting it while the getting’s good.” “What about my copy?” I asked. “See my reports,” he said. “What about my shower?” “See your valet,” I said, and went out, boiling. In my own cubicle I sweated sense-impressions into the copy for a couple of hours and then picked up a guard squad to go shopping. There were no brushes with the patrolmen. I noticed that Warren Astron’s shop-front now sported a chaste sign: Dr. Astron Regrets That Urgent Business Has Recalled Him to Earth on Short Notice I asked one of our boys: “Has the Ricardo left?” “Couple hours ago, Mr. Courtenay. Next departure’s the Pareto, tomorrow.” So I could talk. So I told Fowler Schocken the whole story. And Fowler Schocken didn’t believe a goddamned word of it. He was nice enough and he tried not to hurt my feelings. “Nobody’s blaming you, Mitch,” he said kindly. “You’ve been through a great strain. It happens to us all, this struggle with reality. Don’t feel you’re alone, my boy. We’ll see this thing through. There are times in life when anybody needs-help. My analyst-” I’m afraid I yelled at him. “Now, now,” he said, still kind and understanding. “Just to pass the time-laymen shouldn’t dabble in these things, but I think I know a thing or two about it and can discuss it objectively-let me try to explain-” “Explain this!” I shouted at him, thrusting my altered Social Security tattoo under his nose. “If you wish,” he said calmly. “It’s part of the whole pattern of your brief-call it a holiday from reality. You’ve been on a psychological bender. You got away from yourself. You assumed a new identity, and you chose one as far-removed from your normal, hardworking, immensely able self as possible. You chose the lazy, easygoing life of a scum-skimmer, drowsing in the tropic sun-” I knew then who was out of touch with reality.