‘You should have seen her,' Al said thoughtfully as he sat facing the audience, his jug on his lap. ‘You know you always think that maybe in actual life they're not -- she's not, I mean -- as attractive as she shows up on the TV. I mean, they can control the image so completely. It's synthetic in so many goddam respects. But -- Ian, she was much more attractive. The TV can't catch the vitality, the glow, all the delicate colours of her skin. The luminosity of her hair.' He shook his head, tapping the papoola with his foot; it had taken up a position beneath his chair, out of sight.
‘You know what it did to me, seeing her actually? It made me discontented. I was living pretty well; Luke pays me good salary. And I enjoy meeting the public. And I like operating this creature; it's a job that requires a certain artistic skill, so to speak. But after seeing Nicole Thibodeaux, I never really accepted myself and my life again.' He eyed Ian. ‘I guess that's what you feel just seeing her on the TV.'
Ian nodded. He had begun to feel nervous now; in a few minutes they would be introduced. Their test had almost come.
‘So that's why,' Al continued, ‘I agreed to do this; get on the jug once more and have another try.' Seeing Ian gripping his jug so tautly, Al said, ‘Shall I use the papoola or not? It's up to you.' He raised a quizzical eyebrow, but his face showed understanding.
Ian said, ‘Use it.'
‘Okay,' Al said, and reached his hand inside his coat.
Leisurely he stroked the controls. And, from beneath the chair, the papoola rolled forth, its antennae twitching drolly, its eyes crossing and uncrossing.
At once the audience became alert; people leaned forward to see, some of them chuckling with delight.
‘Look,' a man said excitedly. ‘It's the papoola!'
A woman rose to her feet to see more clearly, and Ian thought to himself, Everyone loves the papoola.
We'll win whether we can play the jugs or not. And then what? Will meeting Nicole make us even more unhappy than we are? Is that what we'll get out of this: hopeless, massive discontent? An ache, a longing which can never be satisfied in this world? It was too late to back out, now. The doors of the auditorium had shut and Don Tishman was rising from his chair, rapping for order. ‘Okay, folks,' he said into his lapel microphone. ‘We're going to have a little display of some talent right now, for everyone's enjoyment. As you see on your programmes, first in order is a fine group, Duncan & Miller and Their Classical Jugs with a medley of Bach and Handel tunes that ought to set your feet tapping.' He grinned crookedly at Ian and Al, as if saying, ‘How does that suit you as an intro?'
Al paid no attention; he manipulated his controls and gazed thoughtfully at the audience, then at last picked up his jug, glanced at Ian and then tapped his foot. ‘The Little Fugue in G Minor' opened their medley, and Al began to blow on the jug, sending forth the lively theme. ‘Bum, bum, bum. Bum-bum-bum-bum bum bum de-bum. DE bum, DE bum, de de-de bum ... ‘ His cheeks puffed out red and swollen as he blew.
The papoola wandered across the stage, then lowered itself, by a series of gangly, foolish motions, into the first row of the audience. It had begun to go to work.
Al winked at Ian.
‘A Mr Strikerock to see you, doctor. Mr Charles Strikerock.' Amanda Connors peeped into Dr Superb's inner office, conscious of the load of the last few days and yet at the same time doing her job, too. Superb was aware of this.
Like a psychopomp, Amanda mediated between the gods and man; or rather in this case between the psychoanalyst and mere human beings. Sick ones at that.
‘All right.' Superb rose to meet the new patient, thinking to himself, Is this the one? Am I here solely to treat -- or rather to fail to treat -- this particular man? He had wondered that about each new patient in turn.
It made him tired, this ceaseless need to speculate. His thinking, ever since the passage of the McPhearson Act, had become obsessive; it went around and around, getting nowhere.
A tall, worried-looking, somewhat bald man with glasses slowly entered the office, his hand extended. ‘I want to thank you for taking me so quickly, doctor.' They shook. ‘You must have a terrific work schedule, these days.' Chic Strikerock seated himself facing the desk.
‘To some extent,' Superb murmured. But, as Pembroke had said, he could not turn down any new patients; on that condition he remained open. ‘You look like I feel,' he said to Chic Strikerock. ‘Excessively trapped, over and above the norm. I guess we expect difficulties in living, but there ought to be some sort of limit.'
‘To be open about it,' Chic Strikerock said, ‘I'm about ready to shuck everything, my job, and -- mistress ... ‘
He paused, his lips twisting. ‘And join the goddam Sons of Job.' He shot a glance of anguish at Dr Superb. ‘That's it.'
‘All right,' Superb said, nodding in agreement. ‘But do you feel compelled to do this? Is it really a matter of choice?'
‘No, I have to do it -- I've got my back to the wall.'
Chic Strikerock pressed his shaking hands together, interlocking his long, thin fingers. ‘My life in society as a career man -- ‘
The phone on Superb's desk winked, on off, on off. An urgent call which Amanda wanted him to take.
‘Excuse me a moment, Mr Strikerock,' Dr Superb lifted the receiver. And, on the screen, the grotesquely-distorted miniature face of Richard Kongrosian formed, gaping as if the man were drowning. ‘Are you still in Franklin Aimes?' Superb asked, at once.
‘Yes,' Kongrosian's voice came in his ears from the shortrange audio receiver. The patient, Strikerock, could not hear it; he fooled with a match, hunched over, clearly resenting the interruption. ‘I just now heard on TV that you still exist. Doctor, something terrible is happening to me. I'm becoming invisible. No one can see me. They only can smell me; I'm turning into nothing but a repellent odour!'
Jesus Christ, Dr Superb thought.
‘Can you see me?' Kongrosian asked timidly. ‘On your screen?'
‘Yes I can,' Superb said.
‘Amazing.' Kongrosian seemed somewhat relieved. ‘Then at least electronic monitoring and scanning devices can pick me up. Maybe I can get by that way. What's your opinion? Have you had cases like this in the past? Has the science of psychopathology run up against this before? Does it have a name?'
‘It has a name.' Superb thought. Extreme crisis of the sense of identity. This is the appearance of overt psychosis; the compulsive-obsessive structure is crumbling. ‘I'll come over to Franklin Aimes this afternoon,' he told Kongrosian.
‘No, no,' Kongrosian protested, his eyes bulging in frenzy. ‘I can't permit that. In fact I shouldn't even be talking to you by phone; it's too dangerous. I'll write you a letter, Goodbye.'
‘Wait,' Superb said tersely.
The image remained on the screen. At least temporarily.
But, he knew, Kongrosian would not stay for long. The fugal pull was too great.
‘I have a patient,' Superb said. ‘So there's little I can do at this moment. What if -- ‘
‘You hate me,' Kongrosian broke in. ‘Everyone does. Good god, I've got to be invisible! It's the only way I protect my life!'
‘I would think there ought to be certain, advantages to being invisible,' Superb said, ignoring what Kongrosian was saying. ‘Especially if you were interested in becoming a pruriently prying type of individual or a felon ... ‘
‘What kind of felon?' Kongrosian's attention had been snared.