Susannah laughed, and seemingly, let down her guard. Along with her polished Smith speaking voice. “Man, you're a trip. Hey-what do you say we get drunk?"
To my surprise, I heard Paul respond: “Sounds like a fine idea to me."
Now this was real trouble. Let me take a moment to explain why.
Whenever I took my alcoholic pleasure inside the Brain Hotel, there were no worries. Inside, there was no such thing as a hangover. Unless, of course, you insisted on one, for reality's sake.
But whenever I (or, whoever happened to be in control of the body) drank real alcohol, all kinds of bad things started to happen. Brain plumbing started to go. Brain toilets backed up. Brain walls tremored, and sometimes, even disappeared. Some personal Brain affects would suddenly vanish, too. I've had problems with sensitive case files going missing. I'm not sure if was the impact of alcohol on the normal processes of my physical brain, or if it was completely psychological. Either way, it was a miserable experience for all involved.
What-you thought I drank Fresca for the taste?
This of course, I only heard second hand. I've never been inside the Brain Hotel when the physical brain became intoxicated. But I heard the complaints for weeks. I had to warn Paul.
Paul called room service and ordered a bottle of Tangueray, a bottle of tonic, a bucket of ice, half a case of beer, a couple of bottles of soda water. I couldn't believe it until I saw it being delivered only minutes later, despite it being 9:30 in the morning.
“Paul,” I said into the lobby mike. “I have to speak with you."
What can I mix you? Susannah asked up on the screen, wheeling the cart into her living room.
“Right now,” I insisted.
A scotch and water, please. Excuse me a minute, will you?
Of course, she said.
Paul walked us into the bathroom, closed the door, flicked the light over the mirror and stared at himself. What is it? he whispered.
I carefully reminded Paul about the personal dangers of alcohol consumption. He sighed, then shook his head.
What do you think I am? A rube? I wasn't planning on drinking.
“Then what's the gin for? Window-washing?"
Alcohol is a social lubricant. If Ms. Winston thinks I'm intoxicated, she'll relax and become intoxicated, too. Most likely, she'll pass out and I'll have the rest of the day to kick back and relax.
“How professional."
Hey-you have your ways of running things, and so do I. Now if you're through with the A.A. lecture, I have our client to attend to.
“Cheers,” I told him.
I flipped off the lobby mike and watched Paul turn away from the mirror and flick off the lights. He walked back into the living room where Susannah was waiting for him with a drink. Here you go, she said. Bottoms up.
Tough assignment.
I tried going back to study my Association notes, but the thought of what was happening in the real world kept me distracted. In the end, I retreated to Old Tom's for a Brain drink. Fuck the Fresca.
Sixteen
Deja Rendezvous
The first week continued in a similar vein. Paul would jerk me out of my slumber, having already seized control of my body, and I'd be forced to wander down to Old Tom's for a morning pick-me-up. Tom made a mean order of scrambled eggs and greasy, fatty bacon, along with a big tumbler of cold tomato juice. However, I started to miss waking up in reality. Damn-after a few days, I realized I missed taking my first morning leak. A Brain piss didn't cut it. Someday, I was sure, some psych researcher would confirm that the male urination ritual set the tone for the day to follow: a healthy, horse-powered piss would indicate a take-charge day, while a sporadic, split-stream piss would indicate a day of indecision and discontent. Lord knows what a researcher would think of a piss in one's own mind.
Most of the residents in the Brain Hotel didn't bother installing a bathroom in their quarters. I was one of the few; I aimed for verisimilitude whenever possible.
While Paul spent the day with Susannah drinking (or faking it), shopping, or watching movies at one of the many theaters within walking distance of the hotel, I'd be compiling and organizing evidence. I needed to see everything laid out in front of me, so I spent a lot of time re-typing and editing the daily accounts stored in my numerous filing cabinets. It was amazing how fast they filled-every second I spent in reality translated into a few words, maybe of sentence, or notes. Already, there was a folder full of notes from Paul After's case. Incredible, the Brain's storage system.
“Which, of course, lends credence to the fact that you are one self-contained mega-sped processing computer from the future,” said a voice. The Ghost of Fieldman. Uninvited as always.
“The human brain can't handle all of this information?"
“No, a human brain certainly can. Just not in this orderly system. The brain links information casually, not logically. A heard song can instigate an emotion which in turn instigates a memory. In here, you have no songs. You have no emotions. You have, simply, notes that you can look up in alphabetical order."
“I like things simple. Before you go interpreting the filing cabinets as a sign of me being a dead piece of machinery, don't forget all the improvements I've made to this hotel over the years.” It was true. Robert had been a complete slob. When I was absorbed, everything was spread out and random. I spent most of my time creating a logical space for my soul to inhabit, and it wasn't easy.
The Ghost of Fieldman frowned. “Don't go bad-mouthing your precursor, oh Great One. You never did understand his system, did you? He had music and dancing…"
“Wait one second,” I said. “You didn't know Robert. He was gone years before you came floating into the picture."
“Remember: I exist out of time,” the Ghost said. “Robert understood how the Brain worked. You only think you do."
“Don't you have a mission to complete, or something?"
“I do. Which is why I worry about you."
Every so often in that first week I'd tune back into reality to see what Paul and his client were up to. Then I'd go back to work. Which wasn't going all too well, to be honest. Nothing at all seemed to connect Ray Loogan or Leah Farrell with the city of Philadelphia. There weren't even any Loogans and Farrells in the phone book.
I'd only get my physical body back at odd, random times-whenever Gard could excuse himself from his wife to spend a couple of hours knocking boots with the mistress. Largely, I used the time to do some minor housekeeping, go for a walk, check the mailbox. I received a notice from Girard Bank three days after Paul started his assignment. Apparently, Gard's check had bounced, and the bank had charged my account a $20 penalty, which dipped it below the $50 minimum. I had three days to correct the situation, or my account would be dropped.
Bounced? Back in Henderson, this kind of thing was unheard of. If someone were to bounce a check on me out there, I'd have bounced something heavy off his head. But I couldn't do that now-Gard was our sole employer. I had to remind Paul to call Gard the next day, first thing. This matter could be handled delicately. Quickly.
And it would seem like every time I did have possession of my body, I'd run into Amy Langtree in the hallway. It never failed. I'd dash out for a package of cheap hot dogs and loaf of bread, and there'd she be, asking where I was headed. “For a walk,” I'd tell her, trying to avoid eye contact.