"I say they're getting stiffed," Clocker stated. "Anybody who works that
hard ought to get paid. I don't mean it's got to be money, although
that's the only kind of pay Zelda'd work for. Right, Arnold?"
"Well, sure," said Arnold Wilson Wyle wonderingly. "I never thought of
it like that. Zelda doing time-steps for nothing ten-fifteen hours a
day--that ain't Zelda."
"If you ask me, she _likes_ her job," Clocker said. "Same with the other
catatonics I seen. But for no pay?"
Doc surprisingly pushed his drink away, something that only a serious
medical puzzle could ever accomplish. "I don't understand what you're
getting at."
"I don't know these other cata-characters, but I do know Zelda," said
Arnold Wilson Wyle. "She's got to get something out of all that work.
Clocker says it's the same with the others and I take his word. What are
they knocking theirself out for if it's for free?"
"They gain some obscure form of emotional release or repetitive
gratification," Doc explained.
"Zelda?" exploded Clocker. "You offer her a deal like that for a club
date and she'd get ruptured laughing."
"I tell her top billing," Oil Pocket agreed, "plenty ads, plenty
publicity, whole show built around her. Wampum, she says; save money on
ads and publicity, give it to her. Zelda don't count coups."
Doc Hawkins called over the waiter, ordered five fingers instead of his
customary three. "Let us not bicker," he told Clocker. "Continue."
* * * * *
Clocker looked at his charts again. "There ain't a line that ain't
represented, even the heavy rackets and short grifts. It's a regular
human steeplechase. And these sour apples do mostly whatever they did
for a living--draw pictures, sell shoes, do lab experiments, sew
clothes, Zelda with her time-steps. By the hour! In the air!"
"In the air?" Handy Sam repeated. "Flying?"
"Imaginary functioning," Doc elaborated for him. "They have nothing in
their hands. Pure hallucination. Systematic delusion."
"Sign language?" Oil Pocket suggested.
"That," said Clocker, before Doc Hawkins could reject the notion, "is on
the schnoz, Injun. Buttonhole says I'm like doping races. He's right.
I'm working out what some numbers-runner tells me is probabilities. I
got it all here," he rapped the charts, "and it's the same thing all
these flop-ears got in common. Not their age, not their jobs, not
their--you should pardon the expression--sex. They're _teaching_."
Buttonhole looked baffled. He almost let go of Doc's lapel.
Handy Sam scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully with a big toe.
"Teaching, Clocker? Who? You said they're kept in solitary."
"They are. I don't know who. I'm working on that now."
Doc shoved the charts aside belligerently to make room for his beefy
elbows. He leaned forward and glowered at Clocker. "Your theory belongs
in the Sunday supplement of the alleged newspaper I write for. Not all
catatonics work, as you call it. What about those who stand rigid and
those who lie in bed all the time?"
"I guess you think that's easy," Clocker retorted. "You try it sometime.
I did. It's work, I tell you." He folded his charts and put them back
into the inside pocket of his conservative jacket. He looked sick with
longing and loneliness. "Damn, I miss that mouse. I got to save her,
Doc! Don't you get that?"
Doc Hawkins put a chunky hand gently on Clocker's arm. "Of course, boy.
But how can you succeed when trained men can't?"
"Well, take Zelda. She did time-steps when she was maybe five and going
to dancing school--"
"Time-steps have some symbolic significance to her," Doc said with more
than his usual tact. "My theory is that she was compelled to go against
her will, and this is a form of unconscious rebellion."
"They don't have no significance to her," Clocker argued doggedly. "She
can do time-steps blindfolded and on her knees with both ankles tied
behind her back." He pried Buttonhole's hand off Doc's lapel, and took
hold of both of them himself. "I tell you she's teaching, explaining,
breaking in some dummy who can't get the hang of it!"
"But who?" Doc objected. "Psychiatrists? Nurses? You? Admit it,
Clocker--she goes on doing time-steps whether she's alone or not. In
fact, she never knows if anybody is with her. Isn't that so?"
"Yeah," Clocker said grudgingly. "That's what has me boxed."
* * * * *
Oil Pocket grunted tentatively, "White men not believe in spirits.
Injuns do. Maybe Zelda talk to spirits."
"I been thinking of that," confessed Clocker, looking at the red angel
unhappily. "Spirits is all I can figure. Ghosts. Spooks. But if Zelda
and these other catatonics are teaching ghosts, these ghosts are the
dumbest jerks anywhere. They make her and the rest go through time-steps
or sewing or selling shoes again and again. If they had half a brain,
they'd get it in no time."
"Maybe spirits not hear good," Oil Pocket offered, encouraged by
Clocker's willingness to consider the hypothesis.
"Could be," Clocker said with partial conviction. "If we can't see them,
it may be just as hard for them to see or hear us."
Oil Pocket anxiously hitched his chair closer. "Old squaw name Dry
Ground Never Rainy Season--what you call old maid--hear spirits all the
time. She keep telling us what they say. Nobody listen."
"How come?" asked Clocker interestedly.
"She deaf, blind. Not hear thunder. Walk into cactus, yell like hell.
She hardly see us, not hear us at all, how come she see and hear
spirits? Just talk, talk, talk all the time."
Clocker frowned, thinking. "These catatonics don't see or hear us, but
they sure as Citation hear and see _something_."
Doc Hawkins stood up with dignity, hardly weaving, and handed a bill to
the waiter. "I was hoping to get a private racing tip from you, Clocker.
Freshly sprung from the alcoholic ward, I can use some money. But I see
that your objectivity is impaired by emotional considerations. I
wouldn't risk a dime on your advice even after a race is run."
"I didn't expect you to believe me," said Clocker despairingly. "None of
you pill-pushers ever do."
"I can't say about your psycho-doping," declared Arnold Wilson Wyle,
also rising. "But I got faith in your handicapping. I'd still like a
long shot at Hialeah if you happen to have one."
"I been too busy trying to help Zelda," Clocker said in apology.
They left, Doc Hawkins pausing at the bar to pick up a credit bottle to
see him through his overdue medical column.
Handy Sam slipped on his shoes to go. "Stick with it, Clocker. I said
you was a scientist--"
"_I_ said it," contradicted Buttonhole, lifting himself out of the chair
on Handy Sam's lapels. "If anybody can lick this caper, Clocker can."
Oil Pocket glumly watched them leave. "Doctors not think spirits real,"
he said. "I get sick, go to Reservation doctor. He give me medicine. I
get sicker. Medicine man see evil spirits make me sick. Shakes rattle.
Dances. Evil spirits go. I get better."
"I don't know what in hell to think," confided Clocker, miserable and
confused. "If it would help Zelda, I'd cut my throat from head to foot
so I could become a spirit and get the others to lay off her."
"Then you spirit, she alive. Making love not very practical."
"Then what do I do--hire a medium?"
"Get medicine man from Reservation. He drive out evil spirits."
Clocker pushed away from the table. "So help me, I'll do it if I can't
come up with something cheaper than paying freight from Oklahoma."
"Get Zelda out, I pay and put her in show."
"Then if I haul the guy here and it don't work, I'm in hock to you.
Thanks, Oil Pocket, but I'll try my way first."
* * * * *
Back in his hotel room, waiting for the next day so he could visit
Zelda, Clocker was like an addict at the track with every cent on a
hunch. After weeks of neglecting his tip sheet to study catatonia, he
felt close to the payoff.
He spent most of the night smoking and walking around the room, trying
not to look at the jars and hairbrushes on the bureau. He missed the
bobbypins on the floor, the nylons drying across the shower rack, the
toothpaste tubes squeezed from the top. He'd put her perfumes in a
drawer, but the smell was so pervasively haunting that it was like
having her stand invisibly behind him.
[Illustration]
As soon as the sun came up, he hurried out and took a cab. He'd have to
wait until visiting hours, but he couldn't stand the slowness of the
train. Just being in the same building with her would--almost--be
enough.
When he finally was allowed into Zelda's room, he spent all his time
watching her silently, taking in every intently mumbled word and
movement. Her movements, in spite of their gratingly basic monotony,
were particularly something to watch, for Zelda had blue-black hair down
to her shapely shoulders, wide-apart blue eyes, sulky mouth, and an
astonishing body. She used all her physical equipment with unconscious
provocativeness, except her eyes, which were blankly distant.
Clocker stood it as long as he could and then burst out, "Damn it,
Zelda, how long can they take to learn a time-step?"
She didn't answer. She didn't see him, hear him, or feel him. Even when
he kissed her on the back of the neck, her special place, she did not
twist her shoulder up with the sudden thrill.
He took out the portable phonograph he'd had permission to bring in, and
hopefully played three of her old numbers--a ballet tap, a soft shoe,
and, most potent of all, her favorite slinky strip tune. Ordinarily, the
beat would have thrown her off, but not any more.
"Dead to this world," muttered Clocker dejectedly.
He shook Zelda. Even when she was off-balance, her feet tapped out the
elementary routine.
"Look, kid," he said, his voice tense and angry, "I don't know who these
squares are that you're working for, but tell them if they got you, they
got to take me, too."
Whatever he expected--ghostly figures to materialize or a chill wind
from nowhere--nothing happened. She went on tapping.
He sat down on her bed. _They_ picked people the way he picked horses,
except he picked to win and they picked to show. To show? Of course.
Zelda was showing them how to dance and also, probably, teaching them
about the entertainment business. The others had obviously been selected
for what they knew, which they went about doing as singlemindedly as she
did.
* * * * *
He had a scheme that he hadn't told Doc because he knew it was crazy. At
any rate, he hoped it was. The weeks without her had been a hell of
loneliness--for him, not for her; she wasn't even aware of the awful
loss. He'd settle for that, but even better would be freeing her
somehow. The only way he could do it would be to find out who controlled
her and what they were after. Even with that information, he couldn't be
sure of succeeding, and there was a good chance that he might also be
caught, but that didn't matter.
The idea was to interest _them_ in what he knew so _they_ would want to
have him explain all he knew about racing. After that--well, he'd make
his plans when he knew the setup.
Clocker came close to the automatic time-step machine that had been his
wife. He began talking to her, very loudly, about the detailed knowledge
needed to select winners, based on stud records, past performances of
mounts and jockeys, condition of track and the influence of the
weather--always, however, leaving out the data that would make sense of
the whole complicated industry. It was like roping a patsy and holding
back the buzzer until the dough was down. He knew he risked being
cold-decked, but it was worth the gamble. His only worry was that
hoarseness would stop him before he hooked _their_ interest.
An orderly, passing in the corridor, heard his voice, opened the door
and asked with ponderous humor, "What you doing, Clocker--trying to take
out a membership card in this country club?"
Clocker leaped slightly. "Uh, working on a private theory," he said,
collected his things with a little more haste than he would have liked
to show, kissed Zelda without getting any response whatever, and left
for the day.
But he kept coming back every morning. He was about to give up when the
first feelings of unreality dazed and dazzled him. He carefully
suppressed his excitement and talked more loudly about racing. The world
seemed to be slipping away from him. He could have hung onto it if he
had wanted. He didn't. He let the voices come, vague and far away,
distorted, not quite meaningless, but not adding up to much, either.
And then, one day, he didn't notice the orderly come in to tell him that
visiting hours were over. Clocker was explaining the fundamentals of
horse racing ... meticulously, with immense patience, over and over and
over ... and didn't hear him.
* * * * *
It had been so easy that Clocker was disappointed. The first voices had
argued gently and reasonably over him, each claiming priority for one
reason or another, until one either was assigned or pulled rank. That
was the voice that Clocker eventually kept hearing--a quiet, calm voice
that constantly faded and grew stronger, as if it came from a great
distance and had trouble with static. Clocker remembered the crystal set
his father had bought when radio was still a toy. It was like that.
Then the unreality vanished and was replaced by a dramatic new reality.
He was somewhere far away. He knew it wasn't on Earth, for this was like
nothing except, perhaps, a World's Fair. The buildings were low and
attractively designed, impressive in spite of their softly blended
spectrum of pastel colors. He was in a huge square that was
grass-covered and tree-shaded and decorated with classical sculpture.
Hundreds of people stood with him, and they all looked shaken and
scared. Clocker felt nothing but elation; he'd arrived. It made no
difference that he didn't know where he was or anything about the setup.
He was where Zelda was.
[Illustration]
"How did I get here?" asked a little man with bifocals and a vest that
had pins and threaded needles stuck in it. "I can't take time for
pleasure trips. Mrs. Jacobs is coming in for her fitting tomorrow and
she'll positively murder me if her dress ain't ready."
"She can't," Clocker said. "Not any more."
"You mean we're dead?" someone else asked, awed. It was a softly pudgy
woman with excessively blonde hair, a greasily red-lipped smile and a
flowered housecoat. She looked around with great approval. "Hey, this
ain't bad! Like I always said, either I'm no worse than anybody else or
they're no better'n me. How about that, dearie?"
"Don't ask me," Clocker evaded. "I think somebody's going to get an
earful, but you ain't dead. That much I can tell you."
The woman looked disappointed.
Some people in the crowd were complaining that they had families to take
care of while others were worried about leaving their businesses. They
all grew silent, however, when a man climbed up on a sort of marble
rostrum in front of them. He was very tall and dignified and wore formal
clothes and had a white beard parted in the center.
"Please feel at ease," he said in a big, deep, soothing voice, like a
radio announcer for a symphony broadcast. "You are not in any danger. No
harm will come to you."
"You _sure_ we ain't dead, sweetie?" the woman in the flowered housecoat
asked Clocker. "Isn't that--"
"No," said Clocker. "He'd have a halo, wouldn't he?"
"Yeah, I guess so," she agreed doubtfully.
The white-bearded man went on, "If you will listen carefully to this
orientation lecture, you will know where you are and why. May I
introduce Gerald W. Harding? Dr. Harding is in charge of this reception
center. Ladies and gentlemen, Dr. Harding."
* * * * *
A number of people applauded out of habit ... probably lecture fans or
semi-pro TV studio audiences. The rest, including Clocker, waited as an
aging man in a white lab smock, heavy-rimmed eyeglasses and smooth pink
cheeks, looking like a benevolent doctor in a mouthwash ad, stood up and
faced the crowd. He put his hands behind his back, rocked on his toes a
few times, and smiled benevolently.
"Thank you, Mr. Calhoun," he said to the bearded man who was seating
himself on a marble bench. "Friends--and I trust you will soon regard us
_as_ your friends--I know you are puzzled at all this." He waved a white
hand at the buildings around them. "Let me explain. You have been
chosen--yes, carefully screened and selected--to help us in undoubtedly
the greatest cause of all history. I can see that you are asking
yourselves _why_ you were selected and what this cause is. I shall
describe it briefly. You'll learn more about it as we work together in
this vast and noble experiment."
The woman in the flowered housecoat looked enormously flattered. The
little tailor was nodding to show he understood the points covered thus
far. Glancing at the rest of the crowd, Crocker realized that he was the
only one who had this speech pegged. It was a pitch. These men were out
for something.
He wished Doc Hawkins and Oil Pocket were there. Doc doubtless would
have searched his unconscious for symbols of childhood traumas to
explain the whole thing; he would never have accepted it as _some_ kind
of reality. Oil Pocket, on the other hand, would somehow have tried to
equate the substantial Mr. Calhoun and Dr. Harding with tribal spirits.
Of the two, Clocker felt that Oil Pocket would have been closer.
Or maybe he was in his own corner of psychosis, while Oil Pocket would
have been in another, more suited to Indians. Spirits or figments?
Whatever they were, they looked as real as anybody he'd ever known, but
perhaps that was the naturalness of the supernatural or the logic of
insanity.
Clocker shivered, aware that he had to wait for the answer. The one
thing he did know, as an authority on cons, was that this had the smell
of one, supernatural or otherwise. He watched and listened like a
detective shadowing an escape artist.
"This may be something of a shock," Dr. Harding continued with a
humorous, sympathetic smile. "I hope it will not be for long. Let me
state it in its simplest terms. You know that there are billions of
stars in the Universe, and that stars have planets as naturally as cats
have kittens. A good many of these planets are inhabited. Some
life-forms are intelligent, very much so, while others are not. In
almost all instances, the dominant form of life is quite different
from--yours."
Unable to see the direction of the con, Clocker felt irritated.
"Why do I say _yours_, not _ours_?" asked Dr. Harding. "Because, dear
friends, Mr. Calhoun and I are not of your planet or solar system. No
commotion, please!" he urged, raising his hands as the crowd stirred
bewilderedly. "Our names are not Calhoun and Harding; we adopted those
because our own are so alien that you would be unable to pronounce them.
We are not formed as you see us, but this is how we _might_ look if we
were human beings, which, of course, we are not. Our true appearance
seems to be--ah--rather confusing to human eyes."
* * * * *
Nuts, Clocker thought irreverently. Get to the point.
"I don't think this is the time for detailed explanations," Dr. Harding
hurried on before there were any questions. "We are friendly, even
altruistic inhabitants of a planet 10,000 light-years from Earth. Quite
a distance, you are thinking; how did we get here? The truth is that we
are not 'here' and neither are you. 'Here' is a projection of thought, a
hypothetical point in space, a place that exists only by mental force.
Our physical appearances and yours are telepathic representations.
Actually, our bodies are on our own respective planets."
"Very confusing," complained a man who looked like a banker. "Do you
have any idea of what he's trying to tell us?"
"Not yet," Clocker replied with patient cynicism. "He'll give us the
convincer after the buildup."
The man who looked like a banker stared sharply at Clocker and moved
away. Clocker shrugged. He was more concerned with why he didn't feel
tired or bored just standing there and listening. There was not even an
overpowering sense of urgency and annoyance, although he wanted to find
Zelda and this lecture was keeping him from looking for her. It was as
if his emotions were somehow being reduced in intensity. They existed,
but lacked the strength they should have had.
So he stood almost patiently and listened to Dr. Harding say, "Our
civilization is considerably older than yours. For many of your
centuries, we have explored the Universe, both physically and
telepathically. During this exploration, we discovered your planet. We
tried to establish communication, but there were grave difficulties. It
was the time of your Dark Ages, and I'm sorry to report that those
people we made contact with were generally burned at the stake." He
shook his head regretfully. "Although your civilization has made many
advances in some ways, communication is still hampered--as much by false
knowledge as by real ignorance. You'll see in a moment why it is very
unfortunate."
"Here it comes," Clocker said to those around him. "He's getting ready
finally to slip us the sting."
The woman in the housecoat looked indignant. "The nerve of a crumb like
you making a crack about such a fine, decent gentleman!"
"A blind man could see he's sincere," argued the tailor. "Just think of
it--_me_, in a big experiment! Will Molly be surprised when she finds
out!"
"She won't find out and I'll bet she's surprised right now," Clocker
assured him.
"The human body is an unbelievably complicated organism," Dr. Harding
was saying. The statement halted the private discussion and seemed to
please his listeners for some reason. "We learned that when we tried to
assume control of individuals for the purpose of communication. Billions
of neural relays, thousands of unvolitional functions--it is no
exaggeration to compare our efforts with those of a monkey in a power
plant. At our direction, for example, several writers produced books
that were fearfully garbled. Our attempts with artists were no more
successful. The static of interstellar space was partly responsible, but
mostly it was the fact that we simply couldn't work our way through the
maze that is the human mind and body."
* * * * *
The crowd was sympathetic. Clocker was neither weary nor bored, merely
longing for Zelda and, as a student of grifts, dimly irritated. Why hold
back when the chumps were set up?
"I don't want to make a long story of our problems," smiled Dr. Harding.
"If we could visit your planet in person, there would be no difficulty.
But 10,000 light-years is an impossible barrier to all except thought
waves, which, of course, travel at infinite speed. And this, as I said
before, is very unfortunate, because the human race is doomed."