She lit a cigarette and sat in bed, smoking and staring straight ahead of her, silently.
The vug said, "Mr. Garden, when did you first begin to notice these disembodied feelings, as if the world about you is not quite real?"
"As long ago as I can remember," Pete said.
"And your reaction?"
"Depression. I've taken thousands of amitriptyline tablets and they only have a temporary effect."
"Do you know who I am?" the vug asked.
"Let's see," Pete said, cogitating. The name Doctor Phelps floated through his mind. "Doctor Eugen Phelps," he said hopefully.
"Almost right, Mr. Garden. It's Doctor E. R. Philipson. And how did you happen to look me up? Do you perhaps recall that?"
Pete said, "How could I help looking you up?" The answer was obvious. "Because you're there. Or rather, here."
"Stick out your tongue."
"Why?"
"As a mark of disrespect."
Pete stuck out his tongue. "Ahhh," he said.
"Additional comment is unnecessary; the point's made. How many times have you attempted suicide?"
"Four," Pete said. "The first when I was twenty. The second when I was forty. The third—"
"No need to go on. How close did you come to success?"
"Very close. Yes sir. Especially the last time."
"What stopped you?"
"A force greater than myself," Pete said.
"How droll." The vug chuckled.
"I mean my wife. Betty, that was her name. Betty Jo. She and I met at Joe Schilling's rare record shop. Betty Jo had breasts as firm and ripe as melons. Or was her name Mary Anne?"
"Her name was not Mary Anne," Doctor E. R. Philipson said, "because now you're speaking of the eighteen-year-old daughter of Pat and Alien McClain and she has never been your wife. I am not qualified to describe her breasts. Or her mother's. In any case you scarcely know her; all you know about her in fact is that she devoutly listens to Nats Katz whom you can't stand. You and she have nothing in common."
"You lying son of a bitch," Pete said.
"Oh no. I'm not lying. I'm facing reality and that's exact-
ly what you've failed to do; that's why you're here. You're involved in an intricate, sustained illusion-system of massive proportion. You and half of your Game-playing friends. Do you want to escape from it?"
"No," Pete said. "I mean yes. Yes or no; what does it matter?" He felt sick at his stomach. "Can I leave now?" he said. "I think I've spent all my money."
The vug Doctor E. R. Philipson said, "You have twenty-five dollars in time left."
"Well, I'd rather have the twenty-five dollars."
"That raises a nice point of professional ethics in that you have already paid me."
"Then pay me back," Pete said.
The vug sighed. "This is a stalemate. I think I will make the decision for both of us. Do I have twenty-five dollars worth of help left that I can give you? It depends on what you want. You are in a situation of insidiously-growing difficulty. It will probably kill you shortly, just as it killed Mr. Luckman. Be especially careful for your pregnant wife; she is excruciatingly fragile at this point."
"I will. I will."
Doctor E. R'. Philipson said, "Your best bet, Garden, is to bend with the forces of the times. There's little hope that you can achieve much, really; you're one person and you do, in some respects, properly see the situation. But physically you're powerless. Who can you go to? E. B. Black? Mr. Hawthorne? You could try. They might help you; they might not. Now, as to the time-segment missing from your memory."
"Yes," Pete said. "The time-segment missing from my memory. How about that?"
"You have fairly well reconstructed it by means of the Rushmore Effect mechanisms. So don't fret unduly."
"But did I kill Luckman?"
"Ha ha," the vug said. "Do you think I'm going to tell you? Are you out of your mind?"
"Maybe so," Pete said. "Maybe I'm being naive." He felt even sicker, now, too sick to go on any further. "Where's the men's room?" he asked the vug. "Or should I say the human's room?" He looked around, squinting to see. The
colors were all wrong and when he tried to walk he felt weightless or at least much lighter. Too light. He was not on Earth. This was not one-G pulling at him; it was only a fraction.
He thought, I'm on Titan.
"Second door to the left," the vug Doctor E. R. Philipson said.
"Thank you," Pete said, walking with care so that he would not float up and rebound from one of the white-painted walls. "Listen," he said, pausing. "What about Carol? I'm giving up Patricia; nothing means anything to me except the mother of my child."
"Nothing means anything, you mean," Doctor E. R. Philip-son said. "A joke, and a poor one. I'm merely commenting on your state of mind. 'Things are seldom what they seem; Skim-milk masquerades as cream.' A wonderful statement by the Terran humorist W. S. Gilbert. I wish you luck and I suggest you consult E. B. Black; he's reliable. You can trust him. I'm not sure about Hawthorne." The vug called loudly after Pete, "And close the bathroom door after you so I won't have to listen. It's disgusting, when a Terran is sick."
Pete shut the door. How do I get out of here? he asked himself. I've got to escape. How'd I get here to Titan in the first place?
How much time has passed? Days—weeks, perhaps.
I have to get home to Carol. God, he thought. They may have killed her by now, the way they killed Luckman.
They? Who?
He did not know. It had been explained to him ... or had it? Had he really gotten his one hundred and fifty dollars' worth? Perhaps. It was his responsibility, not theirs, to retain the knowledge.
A window, high up in the bathroom. He moved the great metal paper towel drum over, stood on it and managed to reach the window. Stuck shut, painted shut. He smashed upward against its wooden frame with the heels of his hands.
Creaking, the window rose.
Room enough. He hoisted himself up, squeezed through. Darkness, the Titanian night ... he dropped, fell, listening
to himself whistle down and down like a feather, or rather like a bug with large surface-area in proportion to mass. Whooeee, he shouted, but he heard no sound except the whistle of his falling.
He struck, pitched forward, lay suffering the pain in his feet and legs. I broke my goddam ankle, he said to himself. He hobbled up to his feet. An alley, trashcans and cobblestones; he hobbled toward a street light. To his right, a red neon sign. Dave's Place. A bar. He had come out the back, out of the men's washroom, minus his coat. He leaned against the wall of a building, waiting for the numbing pain in his ankles to subside.
A Rushmore circuit cruising past, automatic policeman. "Are you all right, sir?"
"Yes," Pete said. "Thank you. Just stopped to—you know what. Nature called." He laughed. "Thanks." The Rushmore cop wheeled on.
What city am I in? he asked himself. The air, damp, smelled of ashes. Chicago? St. Louis? Warm, foul air, not the clean air of San Francisco. He walked unsteadily down the street, away from Dave's Place. The vug inside, cadging drinks, clipping Terran customers, rolling them in an educated way. He felt for his wallet in his pants' pocket. Gone. Jesus Christ! He felt at his coat; there it was. He sighed in relief.
Those pills I took, he thought, didn't mix with the drinks, or rather did mix; that's the problem. But I'm okay, not hurt, just a little shaken up and scared. And I'm lost. I've lost myself and my car. And separately.
"Car," he called, trying to summon its auto-auto mech system. Its Rushmore Effect. Sometimes it responded; sometimes not. Chance factor.