Galactic Pot-Healer (3 page)

Joe said, “I can contribute verbally.”

“Give me an example.”

“What?” he said, staring at her face on the screen of the phone.

“Say something profound.”

“You mean right now?”

Kate nodded.

“Beethoven’s music is firmly rooted in reality. That’s what makes him unique. On the other hand, genius as he was, Mozart—”

“Shove it,” Kate said and hung up; the screen went blank.

I shouldn’t have asked if I could come over, Joe realized with acute misery. It gave her that opening, that foot-in-the-psychic-door that she uses, that she preys on. Christ, he thought. Why did I ask? He got up and wandered drearily about his room; his motion became more and more aimless until at last he stopped and simply stood. I have to think about what really matters, he told himself. Not that she hung up or said anything nasty, but whether or not that note I got in the mail today means anything. Pornographic pots, he said to himself. She’s probably right. And it’s illegal to heal a pornographic pot, so there goes that.

I should have realized it as soon as I read the note, he said
to himself. But that’s the difference between Kate and me. She would know right away. I probably wouldn’t have known until I had finished healing it and then taken a good firm look at it. I’m just not bright, he said to himself. Compared to her. Compared to the world.

“The arithmetical total ejaculated in a leaky flow,” he thought fiercely. My best. At least I’m good at The Game. So what? he asked himself.
So what?

Mr. Job, he thought, help me. The time has come. Tonight.

Going rapidly into the tiny bathroom attached to his room he grabbed up the lid of the water closet of the toilet. Nobody, he had often thought, looks into a toilet. There hung the asbestos sack of quarters.

And, in addition, a small plastic container floated. He had never seen it before in his life.

Lifting it from the water he saw, with disbelief, that it contained a rolled up piece of paper. A note, floating in the water closet of his toilet, like a bottle launched at sea. Oh, this can’t really be, he thought, and felt like laughing. I mean Christ; it just can’t. But he did not laugh, because he felt fear. Fear that bordered on dread. It’s another communication, he said to himself. Like the one in the mail tube today. But nobody communicates this way; it isn’t human!

He unscrewed the lid of the small plastic container and groped the enclosed piece of paper out. Yes, it had writing on it; he was right. He read the writing and then he read it again.

What in god’s name is a crumble? he asked himself, and the dread sharpened into panic; he felt undernourished, strangulated heat rise to the back of his neck, a weak response somatically: his body, as well as his mind, was trying to adjust to this; it could not be done on a mental level alone, not this.

Returning to the main room he picked up the receiver of the phone and dialed the twenty-four-hour-a-day dictionary service.

“What’s a crumble?” he asked, when the robot monitor answered.

“A crumbling substance,” the computer fed to the monitor. “In other words fine debris. A small crumb or particle. Introduced into English 1577.”

“Other languages?” Joe asked.

“Middle English kremelen. Old English gecrymian. Middle High Gothic—”

“What about non-Terran languages?”

“On Betelgeuse seven in the Urdian tongue it means a small opening of a temporary nature: a wedge which—”

“That’s not it,” Joe said.

“On Rigel two it means a small life-form which scuttles—”

“Not that either,” Joe said.

“On Sirius five, in the Plabkian tongue ‘crumble’ is a monetary unit.”

“That’s it,” Joe said. “Now tell me how much in Earth money thirty-five thousand crumbles represents.”

The dictionary robot said, “I am sorry, sir, but you will have to consult the banking service for that answer. Please look in your phone book for the number.” It clicked off; the screen died away.

He looked up the number and dialed the banking service.

“We are closed for the night,” the banking-service robot monitor informed him.

“All over the world?” Joe said in amazement.

“Everywhere.”

“How long do I have to wait?”

“Four hours.”

“My life, my entire future—” But he was talking into a dead phone. The banking-service system had abolished the contact.

• • •

What I’ll do, he decided, is lie down and sleep for four hours. It was now seven o’clock; he could set the alarm for eleven.

A pressing of the proper button brought the bed sliding out from the wall, virtually to fill the room; it had been his living room and now it was his bedroom. Four hours, he said to himself as he set the mechanism of the bed’s clock. He lay down, made himself comfortable—as much so as the inadequate bed permitted—and groped for the toggle switch that induced immediately and powerfully the most profound sleep state possible.

A buzzer sounded.

The damn dream circuit, he said to himself. Even early like this do I have to use it? He leaped up, opened the cabinet beside the bed and got out the instructions. Yes, mandatory dreaming was required at any time he used the bed…unless, of course, he threw the sex lever. I’ll do that, he said to himself. I’ll tell it I’m having knowledge in the Biblical sense of a female person.

Once more he lay down and activated the sleep switch.

“You weigh one hundred and forty pounds,” the bed said. “And there is exactly that weight extended over me. Therefore you are not engaged in copulation.” The mechanism voided his throwing of the sleep toggle switch, and at the same time the bed began to warm up; the heating coils in it blatantly glowed beneath him.

He could not argue with an angry bed. So he turned on the sleep-dream interaction and shut his eyes, resignedly.

Sleep came at once; it always did: the mechanism was perfect. And, at once, the dream—which everyone anywhere in the world who was now asleep was also dreaming—clicked on.

One dream for everyone. But, thank god, a different dream each night.

“Hello, there,” a cheerful dream-voice declared. “Tonight’s dream was written by Reg Baker and is called In
Memory Engraved
. Now remember, folks; send in your dream ideas and win huge cash prizes! And if your dream is used you receive an all-expense paid trip off Earth entirely—in any direction you desire!”

The dream began.

Joe Fernwright stood before the Supreme Fiduciary Council in a state of trembling awe. The Secretary of the S.F.C. read from a prepared statement. “Mr. Fernwright,” he declared in a solemn voice, “you have, in your engraving shop, created the plates from which the new money will be printed. Your design, out of over one hundred thousand presented to us, and many of them created with what must be called fantastic cunning, has won. Congratulations, Mr. Fernwright.” The Secretary beamed at him in a fatherly manner, reminding him a little of the Padre presence, which he now and then made use of.

“I am pleased and honored,” Joe responded, “by this award, and I know that I have done my part to restore fiscal stability to the world as we know it. It little matters to me that my face will be pictured on the brightly colored new money, but since it is so, let me express my pleasure at this honor.”

“Your signature, Mr. Fernwright,” the Secretary reminded him, in the fashion of a wise father. “Your signature, not your face, will appear on the currency notes. Where did you get the idea that it would be your likeness as well?”

“Perhaps you don’t understand me,” Joe said. “Unless my face appears on the new currency I will withdraw my design, and the entire economic structure of the Earth will collapse, seeing as how you’ll have to go on using the old inflationary money which has by now become virtually waste paper to be thrown away at the first opportunity.”

The Secretary pondered. “You would withdraw your design?”

“You read me loud and clear,” Joe, in his dream, in
their
dream, said. At this same moment roughly one billion other people on Earth were withdrawing their designs as he now was doing. But of course he had no thought of that; he only knew this: without him the system, the whole nature of their corporate state, would break apart. “And as to my signature, I will, as that great dead hero of the past Ché Guevara did, that noble person, that fine man who died for his friends, because of memory of him I will merely write ‘Joe’ on the bills. But my face must be of several colors. Three at least.”

“Mr. Fernwright,” the Secretary said, “you strike a hard bargain. You are a firm man. You do, in fact, remind me of Ché, and I think all the millions watching on TV will agree. Let’s hear it now for Joe Fernwright and Ché Guevara both together!” The Secretary threw aside his prepared statement and began to clap. “Let’s hear it out there from all you good people; this is a hero of the state, a new firm-minded man who has spent years working to—”

Joe’s alarm woke him up.

Christ, he said to himself; he sat up groggily. What was that about? Money? Already it had become hazy in his mind. “I made the money,” he said aloud, blinking. “Or printed it.” Who cares? he said to himself. A dream. Compensation, by the state, for reality. Night after night. It’s almost worse than being awake.

No, he decided.
Nothing
is worse than being awake.

He picked up the phone and dialed the bank.

“Interplan Corn and Wheat People’s Collective Bank.”

“How much are thirty-five thousand crumbles worth in terms of our dollars?” Joe asked.

“Crumbles as in the Plabkian tongue of Sirius five?”

“Right.”

“The banking service momentarily was silent and then it said, “$200,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000.00.”

“Really?” Joe said.

“Would I lie to you?” the bank robot-voice said. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“Are there any other crumbles?” Joe said. “That is, the word ‘crumble’ used as a monetary unit in any other enclave, civilization, tribe, cult, or society in the known universe?”

“There is a defunct crumble known several thousand years ago in the—”

“No,” Joe said. “This is your active crumble. Thank you and off.” He hung up, his ears ringing; he felt as if he had wandered into a titanic auditorium filled with bells of terrible and grand sizes. This must be what they mean by a mystical experience, he said to himself.

His front door opened and two Quietude Civil Authority policemen made their way into the room. As they walked, their keen, frigid glance took in everything inhabiting the room.

“QCA Hymes and Perkin,” one of them said as he briefly let Joe see his identification plaque. “You’re a pot-healer, Mr. Fernwright; correct? And you’re also on the vet-dole; am I right? Yes I’m right,” he finished, answering his own question. “What would you say your daily income amounts to, your dole and money received for the alleged work you do?”

The other QCA man pushed open the door of the bathroom. “Something interesting here. The top of the tank, the toilet tank, is off. And he’s got a bag of metal coins hanging in there; I should guess about eighty quarters. You’re a frugal man, Mr. Fernwright.” The QCA man came back into the main room. “How long—”

“Two years,” Joe said. “And I’m not breaking any law; I checked with Mr. Attorney before I began.”

“What’s this about thirty-five thousand Plabkian crumbles?”

Joe hesitated.

It was not an unusual phenomenon, his attitude toward the QCA and their men. They had such neat suits, such good gray and brown weaves. Each carried a briefcase. All looked like highly reputable businessmen—prosperous and responsible, able to make decisions: they were not mere bureaucrats to whom orders were given and who merely carried out orders like pseudorobots…and yet they had an inhumanity about them, for no particular reason that he could make out. But then he thought, Ah—I have it. No one could ever imagine a QCA man holding a door open for a lady; that was it; that explained his feeling. A small thing, perhaps, but it seemed to be a comprehension of the severe essence of the QCA throughout. Never hold a door, Joe thought, never take off your hat in an elevator. The ordinary laws of charity did not apply to them, and these laws they did not follow. Ever. But how well shaved they were. How greatly neat.

Strange, he thought, how thinking this could give me the feeling that at last I understand them. But I do. In symbolic form, maybe. But the comprehension is there and it will never go away.

“I got a note,” Joe said. “I’ll show it to you.” He handed them the note which he had found bobbing about in its plastic bottle in the water closet of his facility.

“Who wrote this?” one of the QCA men asked.

“God knows,” Joe said.

“Is that a joke?”

Joe said, “You mean is the note a joke, or what I said in answer to your question in saying, ‘God knows—’” He broke off, because one of the QCA men was bringing out a teep rod, a receptor which would pick up and record his thoughts for police inspection. “You,” Joe said, “will see. That it’s true.”

The rod, wandlike, hovered over his head for several minutes. No one spoke. Then the QCA man returned the rod
to his pocket and stuffed a little speaker into his ear; he played back the tape of Joe’s thoughts, listening intently.

“It’s so,” the QCA man said, and stopped the tape transport, which was located, of course, in his briefcase. “He doesn’t know anything about this note, who put it there or why. Sorry, Mr. Fernwright. You know, naturally, that we monitor all phone calls. This one interested us because—as you can probably appreciate—the sum involved is so large.”

His companion cop said, “Report to us once a day about this matter.” He handed Joe a card. “The number you’re to call is on the card. You don’t have to ask for anyone in particular; tell whoever answers the call what’s developed.”

The first QCA man said, “There isn’t anything legal that you could do to get paid thirty-five thousand Plabkian crumbles, Mr. Fernwright. It has to be illegal. That’s how we see it.”

“Maybe there’re a hell of a lot of broken pots on Sirius five,” Joe said.