We were seeing Macavity at his most Napoleonic. Arguments and objections were out of the question. It was something he'd referred to as his persona power. As the college boy followed Adam into the Hellhole, I looked at Glory.
"If Maser's just a kid, what'll he be like when he grows up?"
"God, maybe?" she answered. "He doesn't overwhelm me but to tell the truth, Alf, he's been whelming me lately."
"D'you think that this persona power is his quadratic?"
Before she could reply, Maser and the college kid came out.
"What?" I exclaimed. "So quickly?"
"Moments, real time," Adam smiled. "No counting, psychwise. There's no time or dimensions in the libido and intellect."
"Xirad za'n Pahlavi." Gaffy beamed.
"No, no!" The redhead was overpowering again. "It was our agreement that no one is to know you understand ancient Persian. Questions will be asked and how can you answer them? You damn well better keep your word."
The boy nodded submissively.
"Right. Got any money on you?"
"All paper, sir. A dollar Federal and two-fifty Bank of Richmond."
"I'll take the paper half dollar for my fee. I'm not undercharging you. It'll be worth a hell of a lot more in the future."
"Thank you, sir."
"Now pay attention. When you go through the front door think hard of the place you wished yourself here from, and you'll wish back into it. Same time. Same place. Got it?"
"Yes, sir." The half-dollar bill was handed over. As the boy turned to leave, Glory said, "Do you want a receipt, Mr. Gaffy?"
"No thanks." He hesitated, then, "Gaffy's what they call me in college. I hate it. My real name's Edgar. Edgar Poe," and he was gone.
Three jaws dropped. Then we burst out laughing.
"So that's what inspired him," I said.
"And you think Rigadoon's going to print this?" Adam chuckled.
"I have my doubts. I also have doubts about Poe's work. Wasn't it a cheat, really?"
"No way, Alf. You ought to know. Inspiration's one thing; what you do with it is something else. Firdausi's been translated into a dozen other languages. Same source for all. Has anyone else ever equaled Poe?"
"God knows they've tried. Me too. But never."
"I had another thought about him," Glory said. "Perhaps this is why he took to drink and drugs. It must have been hell, living with that stockpile and trying to re-create what he could remember."
"Ah yes, memory," Adam said. "Come back into limbo, Alf, and I'll replace your temp recall with that permanent from the one-man band. Like I said, on the house. No charge."
"I pays my own way." I was all class. "I got fifty liras burning a hole in my pocket."
"A whole nickel U.S.? Like wow! You're the last of the big spenders."
"Naw. I'm on expense account."
But just as we reached the door to the Hellhole, Glory called, "Another client, Dammy."
"Oh? Where and when?"
"From the Beta-Prometheus Cluster. Twenty-fifth."
"Jeez," I said. "Does it have two heads?"
"Shut up, Alf. What business, Nan?"
"His name's Tigab. He wants to get rid of an obsession. Says he imagines he's haunted by a hitching post that's in love with his wife."
Glory was ushering the client in as we returned to the parlor. I whispered to Adam, "If I went through the door now would I be in that Cluster in the twenty-fifth?"
"You'd be where and when you really wanted to be," he murmured. "Not just dreaming. We'll fill in details later." Aloud, to the client, "Good evening, sir. So nice of you to wish here from so far off. You've met Nan, my assistant. This is Alf, my associate. I'm Adam, the psychbroker."
Not two heads, just one, and a marked resemblance to the classic portraits and busts of Shakespeare. Two arms, two legs, wearing a timeless jump suit.
Adam continued, "Now what's this delightful obsession about a loving hitching post, Mr. Tigab?"
"Well, it's like this. Me and the wife made our pile and thought we'd live it up a little. We bought a mansion from the estate of an antique dealer, furnished and elegant like this room."
"Thank you, Mr. Tigab."
"Elegant outside too. You know, gardens, lawns, trees, driveways, and 'longside the front steps is an antique hitching post."
"Forgive me, Mr. Tigab, but why do you talk like that?"
"Talk like what?"
"Three words level and one word down."
"Oh. We're born that way out in the Cluster. You know, like kids are born righties or lefties? We're also born inflecting."
"I see. All with the same inflection?"
"Oh no. All different."
"Anyway," Mr. Tigab continued, "about this hitching post hangup I want wiped. We got settled in and everything was great until one afternoon we're sitting in the parlor when my wife jumps up and yells, 'There's a man looking through the window.'
"I jump up. 'Where? Where?"
"She pointed. There."
"I look. Nothing. 'You imagined it', I told the wife. She swore she saw him and he was some kind of ghost because she could see trees through him.
"Well, she's got imagination—she always wanted to be a poet—so I paid no mind, but she kept on seeing it all the time and damn if she didn't start me thinking I was seeing it too."
"Yes? How did you see it?"
"We were sitting by the fire in my study, talking, when I saw this dumpy little spook come in and sit down alongside my wife. It was the image of the figure on the hitching post."
"And?"
"I kept imagining I saw it coming in and sitting with my wife, looking at me like it wanted to be me. She's got me believing this damn delusion and you've got to kick it for me."
"You're sure it's the guy from the hitching post?"
"The image."
"What's it look like?"
"Real antique. Hundreds of years. Hell, I'll draw if for you. Got some white paper?"
Glory produced a large pad and pencil.
"No," Tigab said, "we don't use pen or pencil in the Cluster, we project. Just hold the pad up where you can see it."
He pointed a finger and the hitching post took form on the pad: an eighteenth-century figure, dumpy, right arm raised, left behind its back, top hat on the back of the head, high collar and loose ascot, long overcoat, unmistakable scowling face.
Adam and I looked at each other and began to sputter.
"What's so funny?" Tigab demanded.
"The hitching post ghost," Adam said. "It isn't a delusion, Mr. Tigab, it's a genuine spirit, and it isn't in love with your wife, it's fascinated by how you speak to her."
"I don't believe it. A ghost likes what I say to my wife?"
"No, it likes how you say it. Your inflection. If you'll come with me I'll solve your problem by selling you a new inflection. No more spook sitting with your wife listening to you."
More or less dazed, Tigab followed Macavity into the Hellhole while Glory and I grinned to each other, shaking our heads.
A vaguely familiar-looking man in mirror shades, sweat pants, and a red and white polo shirt walked in. I watched him in the mirror. He was about my height and build, his reddish hair was close-cropped, and he had on some sort of moccasins or dancer's shoes. He wore studded leather straps about his wrists.
He approached Glory. "Is the proprietor in?" he asked.
"Yes, but he's occupied," she replied. "May I help you?"
"No, thanks," he said. "I'll catch him another time."
He turned and left, soundlessly.
When they came out of the Hellhole, moments later,