There were undoubtedly a number of techniques which it could make use of, when pressed. This act of consuming its own sensory-apparatus . . . it appeared to be a reflex act, not even consciously done. By now a mere habit; the creature chewed monotonously, and the luster within the still-watching half-consumed eyes was extinguished. But already the new ones expanding in clusters against the outer surface of the head had begun to acquire animation; several, more advanced in development than the others, had in a dim way discovered him and were with each passing second becoming more alert. Their initial interchange with reality involved him, and the realization of this made him sick with disgust. To be the first object sighted by such semi-autonomous entities—
Hoarsely, its voice thickened by the mouthful which it still continued to chew, the creature said, “Good morning. I have your book for you. Sign here.” One of its pseudopodia convulsed and its tip lathered in a spasm which, after an interval, fumbled forth a bulky old-style bound-in-boards volume which it placed on a small plastic table before Rachmael.
“What—book is this?” he demanded, presently. His mind, numbed, refused to interfere as his fingers poked haphazardly at the handsome gold-stamped book which the creature had presented him.
“The fundamental reference source in this survey instruction,” the cephalopodic organism answered as it laboriously filled out a long printed form; it made use of two pseudopodia and two writing instruments simultaneously, enormously speeding up the intricate task. “Dr. Bloode’s great primary work, in the seventeenth edition.” It swiveled the book, to show him the ornate spine. “The True and Complete Economic and Political History of Newcolonizedland,” it informed him, in a severe, dignified tone of voice, as if reproving him for his unfamiliarity with the volume. Or rather, he realized suddenly, as if it assumed that the title would have overpowering influence alone, without additional aid.
“Hmm,” he said, then, still nonplussed—to say the least. And he thought, It can’t be, but it is. Paraworld—which? Not precisely as it had manifested itself before; this was not Blue, because his glimpse of that, ratified by the other weevils, had contained a cyclopsic organism. And this, for all its similarity to the Aquatic Horror-shape, had by reason of its compound multi-eye system a fundamentally different aspect.
Could this actually be the authentic underlying reality? he wondered. This macro-abomination that resembled nothing ever witnessed by him before? A grotesque monstrosity which seemed, as he watched it devour and consume—to its evident satisfaction—the remainder of its eyes, almost a parody of the Aquatic Horror-shape?
“This book,” the creature intoned, “demonstrates beyond any doubt whatsoever that the plan to colonize the ninth planet of the Fomalhaut system is foolish. No such colony as the projected Newcolonizedland can possibly be established. We owe a great debt to Dr. Bloode for his complete elucidation of this complex topic.” It giggled, then. A wet, slurred, wobbly giggle of delighted mirth.
“But the title,” he said. “It says—”
“Irony,” the creature tittered. “Of course. After all, no such colony exists.” It paused, then, contemplatively. “Or does it?”
He was silent. For some ill-disclosed reason he felt a deep, abiding ominousness in the query.
“I wonder,” the creature said speculatively, “why you don’t speak. Is it so difficult a question? There is, of course, that small group of insane fanatics who allege that such a colony in some weird manner or other actually—” It halted as an ominous shape began—to both its surprise and Rachmael’s—to materialize above its head. “A thing,” the creature said, with resigned weariness. “And the worst style of thing in the known universe. I detest them. Do you not also, Mr, ben Applebaum?”
“Yes,” Rachmael admitted. Because the detested object forming was equally familiar—and loathsome—to him also.
A creditor balloon.
“Oh, there you are!” the balloon piped at the amorphous mass of living tissue confronting Rachmael; it descended, tropic to the eye-eating creature. Obviously, it had located its target.
“Ugh,” the eye-eater mumbled in disgust; with its pseudopodia it batted irritably at the invader.
“You must keep your credit-standing up and in good repute!” the balloon squealed as it bobbed and descended. “Your entire—”
“Get out of here,” the eye-eater muttered angrily.
“Mr. Trent,” the balloon shrilled, “your debts are odious! A great variety of small businessmen will go into bankruptcy immediately unless you honor your obligations! Don’t you have the decency to do so? Everyone took you for a person who honored his obligations, an honorable man who could be trusted. Your assets will be attached through the courts, Mr. Trent; prepare for legal action to be instigated starting immediately! If you don’t make at least a token attempt to pay, the entire net worth of Lies Incorporated—”
“I don’t own Lies Incorporated any more,” the eye-eater broke in gloomily. “It belongs to Mrs. Trent, now. Mrs. Silvia Trent. I suggest you go and bother her.”
“There is no such person as ‘Mrs. Silvia Trent,’ the creditor balloon said, with wrathful condemnation. “And you know it. Her real name is Freya Holm, and she’s your mistress.”
“A lie,” the eye-eater rumbled ominously; again its pseudopodia whipped viciously, seeking out the agile creditor balloon, which dipped and bobbed barely beyond the flailing reach of the several sucker-impregnated arms. “As a matter of fact, this gentleman here—” It indicated Rachmael. “My understanding is that the lady and this individual are emotionally involved. Miss Holm is—was, whatever—a friend of mine, a very close friend. But hardly my mistress.” The eye-eater looked embarrassed.
Rachmael said to it, “You’re Matson Glazer-Holliday.”
“Yes,” the eye-eater admitted.
“He took this evil manifestation,” the creditor balloon shouted, “to evade us. But as you can see, Mr.—” It regarded Rachmael as it bobbed and drifted. “I believe you are familiar to us, too” it declared, then. “Are you one of those who has shirked his moral and legal duty, who has failed to honor his financial obligations? As a matter of fact . . .” It drifted very slowly toward Rachmael. “I think I personally hounded you not too long ago, sir. You are—” It considered as, within, electronic circuits linked it to its agency’s central computer banks, “ben Applebaum!” it shrilled in triumph. “Zounds! I’ve caught two deadbeats AT THE SAME TIME!”
“I’m getting out of here,” the eye-eater who was—or once had been—Matson Glazer-Holliday declared; it began to flow off, uniped-wise, getting free of the situation as quickly as possible . . . and at Rachmael’s expense.
“Hey,” he protested weakly. “Don’t you go scuttling off, Matson. This is all too damn much; wait, for god’s sake!”
“Your late father,” the creditor balloon boomed at him, its voice now amplified by the background data supplied it by the central computer upon which it depended, “as of Friday, November tenth, 2014, owed four and one-third million poscreds to the noble firm Trails of Hoffman Limited, and as his heir, you, sir, must appear before the Superior Court of Marin County, California, and show just cause as to why you have failed (or if you by a miracle have not failed but possess the due sum in toto) and if by your failure you hope to—”
Its resonant voice ceased. Because, in approaching Rachmael the better to harass him, it had forgotten about the finely probing pseudopodia of the eye-eater.
One of the pseudopodia had whipped about the body of the creditor balloon. And squeezed.
“Gleeb!” the creditor balloon squeaked. “Gak!” it whooshed as its frail structure crumbled. “Glarg!” it sighed, and then wheezed into final silence as the pseudopodium crushed it. Fragments rained down, then. A gentle pat-pat of terminal sound.
And after that—silence.
“Thanks,” Rachmael said, gratefully.
“Don’t thank me,” the eye-eater said in a gloomy voice. “After all, you’ve got a lot more troubles than that pitiful object. For instance, Rachmael, you’ve got the illness. Telpor Syndrome. Right?”
“Right,”he admitted.
“So it’s S.A.T. for you. Good old therapy by Lupov’s psychiatrists, probably some second-string hick we never ought to have voted money to pay for. Some fnigging quab; right?” The eye-eater chuckled, in a philosophic fashion. “Well, so it goes. Anyhow—what’s with you, Rachmael? Lately you’ve been, um, a weevil; part of that class and seeing Paraworld Blue . . . is that correct? Yes, correct.” The eye-eater nodded sagely. “And it’s just ever so much fun . . . right? With that Sheila Quam as the control, these days. And form 47-B hanging around, ready to be utilized as soon as two of you experience the same delusional world. Heh-heh.” It chuckled; or rather, Matson Glazer-Holliday chuckled. Rachmael still found it difficult, if not impossible, to recall that the pulpy, massive heap of organic tissue confronting him was Matson.
And—why this shape? Had the creditor balloon been right? Merely to evade the balloon . . . it seemed an overly extreme ruse to escape. Frankly Rachmael was not convinced; he sensed that more, much more, lay below the surface of apparent meaning.