She dismissed her entire staff with curt orders to leave and spend the night elsewhere. She stood at the door and counted them out as they left, all bewildered and unhappy. She slammed the door and looked around. She could still see as well as ever.
“The lying son-of-a-bitch,” she muttered and began pacing furiously. She raged through the apartment. Well at least she’d learned one lesson; interpersonal relationships always betray you. She’d made a fool of herself. But why in God’s name did Blaise shaft her like this? Killing her outright would have been kinder. Was he trying to make her kill hersel—
She smashed into something and was thrown back. She recovered her balance and looked to see what she’d blundered against in her fury. It was a gilt harpsichord.
“But… But I don’t own a harpsichord,” she whispered in astonishment. “How did it—?”
She started forward to touch it and assure herself of its reality. She smashed into the something again, reeled and clutched it. It was the back of a couch; her own tufted couch. She looked around in confusion. This was not one of her rooms. The gilt harpsichord? Vivid Brueghels hanging on the walls? Jacobean furniture? Linenfold paneled doors? Crewel drapes?
“But this is the Raxon apartment below me. I know it. I’ve visited. I must be seeing what they’re seeing. I must— Oh my God! Was he telling the truth?”
She closed her eyes and looked. Through a veil she still saw the Raxon apartment. And dimmer and fading out of focus she saw a confusion of apartments, streets, peoples, actions, forms, colors. She had always seen this sort of montage, but had always thought it was the total visual recall which was a major asset in her extraordinary grasp on the psychodynamics of reality. Now she knew the truth.
She began to sob again. She felt her way around to the front of the couch and sat down, despairing. “My God! My God! My God! A freak! I’d rather be dead…”
When at last the convulsion had spent itself, she wiped her eyes courageously, determined to face her own freak reality and cope with it. She was no coward. But when she opened her eyes, she received another shock. She saw her own living room, the familiar remembered room, but now in tones of grey. And she saw Mr. Wish standing in the open door, smiling glassily at her.
“Blaise?” she whispered.
“The name is Wish, my dear. You may call me Mr. Wish.”
“Blaise! For God’s sake! Not me! You couldn’t follow me. I left no death-wish trail for you.”
“We’ve met before, my dear. I remember, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name. More important matters on my mind, you understand. But now, suddenly, you’ve become very important to me.”
“I’m Gretchen. Gretchen Nunn. And I have no death wish.”
“Nice meeting you again, Gretchen,” he said with crystal courtesy. He took two steps toward her. She jumped up and ran behind the couch.
“Blaise, listen to me. You are not Mr. Wish. There is no Mr. Wish. You’re Dr. Blaise Shima, a famous scientist. Aromatic Hydrocarbons and… and… You’re Chief Scent Chemist at CCC and you’ve created many popular perfumes…”
While his frozen smile remained fixed on her, Mr. Wish began drawing objects from his pockets; a rope knotted into a hangman’s noose, a laser burner, a small pressure bulb labeled (CN)2, a glittering scalpel, an antique 8 mm.-caliber palm-pistol. He arranged them neatly on the end table alongside the couch.
“Blaise,” she pleaded. “I’m Gretchen. Your Gretchen from the Guff. We’ve been lovers for two months. You must remember. Try to remember. You told me about my eyes tonight. Being blind. You must remember that.”
“Different people choose different ways of dying,” he said pleasantly. “After all, it’s their final choice, so they have every right to be particular. I try to provide every road. Here they are, my dear. Which would you prefer? Take your time. Don’t be afraid. I’ll help you kill yourself. I’ll make it easy for you.”
“For Jesussake, Blaise! You’re suffering from blackout. Fugue. Split personality…”
“If it’s the rope, we’ll find a firm support for it, something that can hold… a hundred and twenty pounds, yes? That’s my estimate. If you want to snap your neck, I’ll fetch a chair and you can jump. If you’d like a slow strangle, I’ll tie your wrists for you. I’ll grant any wish.”
“Blaise, you’re inside a crazy creature driven by a pheromone, but I left no suicide trail. I couldn’t!”
“If you prefer gas, here’s cyanogen. Just press the button and take a breath. Some prefer to drink poison. We can bubble the gas into a glass of water and, Hey! Presto! Hydrocyanic acid that kills like a thunderbolt. One sip and your wish is granted. Clever of me, eh? Two deaths in one package.”
“My God, Blaise, I’ve never wanted to die.”
“Yes you do, my dear. Delighted to grant your wish. How about a nice warm bath and this?” The scalpel flashed a cut through the air. “Your wrist, or the carotid in your neck. Just think, your last bath. You’ll never have to worry about water again. And see? Two guns. Bullet or burn. Now really, you couldn’t ask for anything more, could you? Mr. Wish is here to help.”
“No!”
“You called.”
“No!”
“And I came to you.”
She backed away from his hypnotic smile. Mr. Wish made no move. He stood quite still, and his assurance was terrifying. It was an inexorable statement. He knew she wanted to die. He knew she would not be able to resist one of the instruments of suicide. He knew that if he waited patiently, he would help and watch her die. He stood quite still, with the massive assurance of death itself.
“Christ!” she cried. She took a step, hesitated, then dashed past him to the door with a clear chance of escaping him, only to slam into two grinning goons standing shoulder to shoulder in the doorway. Suddenly she was aware of brilliant color in the room. They grabbed and held her while she squealed and struggled helplessly.
They addressed Mr. Wish over her head in the Guff Blurt, “Hi ole buddy boy buddy man.”
“Blaise! Help me!”
Mr. Wish ignored her. “Oh. It’s you again,” he sniffed.
“Hey ole buddy boy buddy man got youself a real type bije this time huh buddy man.”
“And upass loaded with goody goodies huh man we dig buddy.”
“Make up for last three nowhere numbers you got our thanks buddy man Guff thanks buddy boy go home now man bye bye buddy.”
“Why don’t I ever get to watch one die?” Mr. Wish exclaimed petulantly. “They call me. I come. I bring everything and anything they could need. I do all the work, and you always send me away. It’s not fair!” He seemed on the verge of tears.
“Now man no beef man we got to protect our good buddy bird dog who lead us to bije goodies.”
“It’s not fair!”
“And if anything bustass you man like take the rapsville you our setup ole buddy.”
“I still say it’s not fair.”
“Home now buddy man rest of rip belong us so no fight buddy boy because we edge-up on you.”
“We know who you but you don’t know who us see man we blow whistle on you but you nowhere blow whistle on us.”
“I know who I am,” Mr. Wish said stiffly. “I am Mr. Wish, the donor of death, and I think I have the right to watch them kill themselves.” He was now genuinely indignant.
“Sure man sure buddy boy sure next time belong you strictly you.”
“That’s what you always say.”
“Asshole bond this time no guff this time now split buddy boy go home safe you.”
“I don’t like you, not one little bit,” Mr. Wish said resentfully and headed for the door, ignoring the spasming Gretchen who was trying to scream through an iron hand over her mouth. The goons ripped her naked and let out a yell of delight when they saw the diamond in her navel. Mr. Wish turned at the door and saw the jewel, too.