Four squealing transvestites in silk evening gowns swung, with deadly accuracy, blue-sequined purses filled with cement, while cavemen and Pygmies hurled poisoned confetti.
A dayglow orange unicorn reared up with seven soldiers impaled on his horn like so many unpaid bills, and a man-eating plant with an Oxford accent sucked dry one spinal column after another with a sound like a rude boy trying to suck up the last drop of a milkshake. Sadistic peacocks circulated among the wounded, tickling to death the unwary with their feathers. A pregnant ten-year-old teeny-bopper, smashed on acid, mercilessly beat all comers at chess, passing the time between moves by painting pictures of her favorite celebrities, Marshal Ky, Marshal Koli and Adolf Hitler, on her naked but flat chest, with purple lipstick.
Little nude lesbians no more than one inch high scampered over the faces of the enemy removing beards one hair at a time. The Wolfman chewed contentedly on a big toe, spitting out the toenail. A brave band of lawnmowers and growling laundromat machines executed a brilliant flanking movement and attacked from the rear. Everywhere the air was filled with the ghastly sound of guttural shrieks, whoops, howls, oily laughter, gasps, grunts, lisps, drawls, yells, croaks, bellows, whines, sensual moans, brays, yaps, meows, tweets, bleats, roars and maundering.
But at the moment when it appeared as if the ordinary forces of Gus Swenesgard would be wiped out to a man, the fantastic hordes of Percy X began to quarrel among themselves. Frankenstein attacked the Wolfman. Godzilla attacked King Kong. The Boy Scouts criminally assaulted Girl Scouts.
The sabre-tooth tiger was blinded by the needles of shoe-making elves. A spikelet of Meadow Fescue (festuca elatior) was struck down by a cowardly blow from Bucky Bug, anthers, pistil, paleae, glume and all. Suddenly it became a free-for-all. Every apparition for himself.
In an instant Percy realized that if he remained in the midst of the nightmare battle just a moment too long, he and his men would fall victim to their own phantasmagoria. In fact at this very moment a carnivorous vacuum cleaner was attempting to break into the taxi in which he and Lincoln Shaw sat.
“Retreat!” Percy shouted into his mike. “Back to the mountains before it’s too late.”
At dawn the battlefield lay silent.
A mist hung over the scene, hiding the incredible carnage left behind by the night’s orgy of destruction. As the sun rose higher in the sky the mist began to evaporate, and with it the multitude of fantastic shapes and forms which the mist had hidden. Ghostly dead elephants and ruined tanks melted together, became translucent, then transparent, then faded away. Heaps of corpses, wearing the uniforms of every age and nation, blurred and shimmered and became one with the fog. Ionocrafts and creeches and Toms and Neeg-parts they, too, faded and turned to a fog, the real and the unreal meeting and blending and then vanishing together.
By noon the mist and what the mist had hidden had both disappeared without a remnant, and in the shuddering mid-day heat nothing remained but weeds and the bent, upward-poking stalks of grass.
TWELVE
Paul Rivers did not face the man; instead he stood gazing out the hotel room window at the seamy side of Knoxville, Tennessee, as it baked in the afternoon heat. Everything he says is true, Paul thought to himself. And yet—
“There are only two possible outcomes to the situation up there in the hills,” Dr. Martin Choate, Paul’s immediate superior in the World Psychiatric Association, said. “Percy will not use the hell-weapon, and he will lose his pelt and the ego of the human race will be lost with him, or Percy will use the hell-weapon and that will be the end for all of us. Don’t you see that?”
Paul did not speak; he only nodded. Yes, he thought, I see that. But I cant accept it.
“Then you must also see,” Dr. Choate said, “that we have no choice but to kill him and to burn his body, making it look as if he died in action— heroically. Our organization has already begun to make its move. Seven high-ranking wik officials have already killed themselves under hypnotic suggestions implanted by their psychotherapists. Other more complex plans have already been set in motion, but we must have a martyr; we must have our John Brown, our crucified Christ, if we hope to gain the support of the broad masses of people. Isn’t the freedom of most of the human race more important to you than the life of one man, one murderous fanatic?”
Paul said, “Why me?”
“Because he trusts you. You saved him from Bal-kani. We don’t have anyone else who could get near him.”
“That’s the problem,” Paul said. “He trusts me. That’s why I can’t do it.”
“He won’t be able to probe you telepathically. We can hypnotically implant a cover story in your mind, a story you’ll believe yourself until the moment comes to strike. He’ll never know.”
But, Paul thought, I’ll know. “I’ve got to have time to think,” he said aloud.
Choate hesitated, then said, “All right. We can let you have a few days.”
They shook hands and Dr. Choate left without a backward glance. Everyone says “we” these days, Paul thought absently. Nobody says “I.” Everyone represents some formless, irresponsible group and nobody represents themselves.
Stepping out of the bedroom, Joan Hiashi said, “I want some growing things.” She smiled at him uncertainly. “May I?”
“Okay,” he answered, and then experienced a sudden upsurge of spirit, a sudden sense of freedom. “Let’s go out and buy up a whole garden.”
Ed Newkom met them in the hall as they were going out. “What’s up?” he asked, surveying their faces.
“We’re going to do a little shopping,” Paul said; he glanced over his shoulder and saw Ed gazing after them in bewilderment. It was Dr. Rivers who thought with pleased satisfaction, Joan is showing signs of returning to the world of common experience. She wants something. It was, however, just plain Paul who, as he and Joan emerged from the hotel entrance, glanced up at a white cumulus cloud that towered like a god over the dirty slum and thought, Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.
“Joan?” Dr. Balkani said.
“Yes, Rudolph,” said the robot Joan Hiashi, sitting on the analyst’s couch in Balkani’s poorly-lit office. Every day contained the same elements, now; Balkani could see no more change in his patient that he could in his massive bronze bust of Sigmund Freud. Except that sometimes he received the impression that the bust smiled at him. It was in no respects a pleasant smile.
Balkani said, “Joan, is there anything you want?”
“No, Rudolph.”
Eyeing her, he said, “Then you must be happy. Are you happy?”
“I don’t know, Rudolph.”
“You are,” he said. Puffing angrily on his pipe, he paced the floor. Joan did not follow him with her eyes; she continued to stare straight ahead. Abruptly he stopped pacing; he seated himself beside the robot and put his arms around it. “What would you do if I kissed you?” he said. It did not respond. “Put your arms around me,” he barked at it, and it obeyed. He kissed its lips for a lengthy time, but it was boring; up on his feet again he said, “That was boring!”
“Yes, Rudolph.”
“Take off your clothes!”
The robot disrobed, quickly and without wasted motion. Balkani also disrobed, almost falling on his face when he got his feet caught in his pants. “All right, now kiss me again.” They kissed again.
After a few moments Balkani shouted. “It’s still boring!” He pushed her roughly down on the couch and kissed her one more time, but it was still boring. Untangling himself from the robot’s arms he sat with his back to her at the foot of the couch. He felt old. Why do I love her so much? he asked himself. I never loved anybody so much. Getting to his feet he rummaged in his clothing until he found his pill-box; opening it he shook out all the pills, the entire assortment of all colors and shapes—without water he gulped them down. “You see?” he said to the robot Joan. “I don’t care whether I live or die. And neither do you; right?”