I know what I want! I said to myself. I want to join the Sam K. Barrows organization! I want to be a part of it, like Pris; I don't want to shoot him at all!
_I'm going over to the other side_.
There must be a place for me, I told myself. Maybe not doing the Lunar Fling; I'm not after that. I don't want to go on TV; I'm not interested in seeing my name in lights. I just want to be useful. I want to have my abilities made use of by the big cheese.
Picking up the phone I asked the operator for Ontario, Oregon. I got the operator at Ontario and gave her Maury's home phone number.
The phone rang, and then Maury sleepily answered.
"What did you do, go to bed?" I asked. "Listen, Maury. I had to tell you this, it's right you should know. I'm going over to the other side; I'm joining up with Barrows and the hell with you and my dad and Chester and the Stanton, which is a dictator anyhow and would make life unendurable for us. The only one I regret doing this to is Lincoln. But if he's so all-wise and understanding he'll understand and forgive, like Christ."
"Pardon?" Maury said. He did not seem to comprehend me.
"I sold out," I said.
"No," Maury said, "you're wrong."
"How can I be wrong? What do you mean I'm wrong?"
"If you go over to Barrows, there won't be any R & R ASSOCIATES, so there won't be anything to sell out. We'll simply fold, buddy. You know that." He sounded perfectly calm. "Isn't that a fact?"
"I don't give a damn. I just know that Pris is right; you can't meet a man like Sam Barrows and then forget you met him. He's a star; he's a comet. You either tag along in his wake or you cease for all intents and purposes to exist. It's an emotional hunger inside me, irrational but it's real. It's an instinct. It'll hit you, too, one of these days. He's got magic. Without him we're snails. What's the purpose of life anyhow? To drag along in the dust? You don't live forever. If you can't raise yourself up to the stars you're dead. You know the .38 pistol I have with me? If I can't make it with the Barrows organization I'm going to blow my goddam brains out. I'm not going to be left behind. The instincts inside a person--instincts to live!--are too strong."
Maury was silent. But I could hear him there at the other end.
"Listen," I said, "I'm sorry to wake you up but I had to tell you."
"You're mentally ill," Maury said. "I'm going to--listen, buddy. I'm going to call Doctor Horstowski."
"What for?"
"Have him call you there at your hotel."
"Okay," I said. "I'll get off the line." I hung up, then.
I sat on the bed waiting and sure enough, not twenty minutes later, at about one-thirty in the morning, the phone rang once more.
"Hello," I said into it.
A far-off voice. "This is Milton Horstowski."
"Louis Rosen, Doctor."
"Mr. Rock called me." A long pause. "How are you feeling, Mr. Rosen? Mr. Rock said you seemed upset about something."
"Listen, you Government employee," I said, "this is no business of yours. I had a beef with my partner, Maury Rock, and that's it. I'm now in Seattle on my way to linking up with a much bigger and more progressive organization; you recall my mentioning Sam K. Barrows?"
"I know who he is."
"Is that so crazy?"
"No," Doctor Horstowski said. "Not on the face of it."
"I told that about the gun to Maury just to get his goat. It's late and I'm a little stewed. Sometimes when you break up a partnership it's hard psychologically." I waited but Horstowski said nothing. "I guess I'll turn in now. Maybe when I get back to Boise I'll drop in and see you; this is all very hard on me. Pris went and joined the Barrows organization, you know."
"Yes I know. I'm still in touch with her."
"She's quite a girl," I said. "I'm beginning to think I'm in love with her. Could that be? I mean, a person of my psychological type?"
"It's possible."
"Well, I guess that's probably what's happened. I can't live without Pris, so that's why I'm in Seattle. But I still say I made up that about the gun; you can quote me to Maury to that effect if it'll calm him. I was just trying to show him I'm serious. You get it?"
"Yes, I think so," Doctor Horstowski said.
We talked on to no point for a while longer, and then he rang off. As soon as I had hung up I said to myself, The guy'll probably phone the Seattle police or the FBMH here. I can't take the chance; he just might.
So I began packing my things as fast as I could. I got everything into the suitcase and then I left the room; I took the elevator downstairs to the main floor, and, at the desk, I asked for my bill.
"You weren't displeased with anything, were you, Mr. Rosen?" the night clerk asked me as the girl computed the charges.
"Naw," I said. "I managed to contact the person I came here to meet and he wants me to spend the night at his place."
I paid the bill--it was quite moderate--and then called a taxi. The doorman carried my suitcase out and stuffed it in the trunk of the cab; I tipped him a couple of dollars and a moment later the cab shot out into the surprisingly dense traffic.
When we passed a likely-looking modern motel I took note of the location; I had the cab stop a few blocks beyond it, paid the driver, and then on foot walked back. I told the motel owner that my car had broken down--I was driving through Seattle on business--and I registered under the name James W. Byrd, a name I made up on the spot. I paid in advance--eighteen-fifty--and then, with the motel key in my hand, set off for room 6.
It was pleasant, clean and bright, just what I wanted; I at once turned in and was soon sound asleep. They won't get me now, I remember saying to myself as I drifted off. I'm safe. And tomorrow I'll get hold of Sam Barrows and give him the news that I'm coming over.
And then, I remember thinking, I'll be back with Pris again; I'll get in on her rise to fame. I'll be there to see the whole thing. Maybe we'll get married. I'll tell her how I feel about her, that I'm in love with her. She's probably twice as beautiful now as she was before, now that Barrows has gotten hold of her. And if Barrows competes with me, I'll wipe him out of existence. I'll atomize him with methods hitherto unglimpsed. He won't stand in my way; I'm not kidding.
Thinking that, I drifted off.
The sun woke me at eight o'clock, shining in on me and the bed and the room. I had not pulled the curtains. Cars parked in a row outside gleamed and reflected the sun. It looked like a nice day.
What had I thought the night before? My thoughts while going to sleep came back to me. Nutty, wild thoughts, all about marrying Pris and killing Sam Barrows, kid's thoughts. When you're going to sleep you revert to childhood, no doubt of it. I felt ashamed.
And yet, basically I stuck to my position. I had come to get Pris and if Barrows tried to stand in my way--too bad for him.
I had run amok, but I did not intend to back down. Sanity prevailed, now that it was daylight; I padded into the bathroom and took a long cold shower, but even the light of day did not dispel my deep convictions. I just worked them about until they were more rational, more convincing, more practical. First, I had to approach Barrows in the proper manner; I had to conceal my actual feelings, my real motive. I had to hide anything to do with Pris; I would tell him that I wanted to go to work for him, maybe help design the simulacrum-- bring all the knowledge and experience I had built up from my years with Maury and Jerome. But no hint about Pris because if he caught even the slightest note, there-- You're shrewd, Sam K. Barrows, I said to myself. But you can't read my mind. And it won't show on my face; I'm too experienced, too much a professional, to give myself away.
As I dressed, tying my tie, I practiced in front of the mirror. My face was absolutely impassive; no one would have guessed that inside me my heart was being gnawed away, eaten at by the worm of desire: love for Pris Frauenzimmer or Womankind or whatever she called herself now.