The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai (8 page)

As you might suspect, on that note the party ended. I have no recollection of anything other than crawling off to the bathroom and hearing Buckaroo’s voice sometime later through the door.

“Reno?”

“Yes?” I replied weakly.

“Can I come in?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Are you all right?”

“No, but there’s nothing anyone can do, not even Buckaroo Banzai.”

“We’re putting on a syncopated show at the Hollywood Palladium in Los Angeles this coming Saturday. I really enjoy your playing. Can you make it?”

“If I’m better,” I said.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine tomorrow. I’ll wire you a plane ticket and expense money.”

“Does this mean—?” I wasn’t quite sure of the correct terminology. “You’ll be needing me all the time?”

“I’m offering you an internship to the Banzai Institute,” Buckaroo said. “The stipend isn’t a lot—only five hundred dollars a month, plus your lodging and meals—but you’ll learn to fight, shoot, and handle a lasso. And if you make it to resident, you’ll have the full resources of the Institute at your disposal. You can study in depth whatever topic you choose, alongside some of the finest minds in the world.”

I balked, momentarily awash in self-pity. “Do you think I can make the grade?” I asked.

“Humanity demands it,” he said.

“I’ll see you in Los Angeles.”

(Backstage in Atlantic City we wait to go on. Buckaroo materializes in his usual hurry, looking for something to eat, trailed by a gang of reporters.)

Buckaroo Banzai:
I’m starving. Somebody help.

Rawhide:
I’ve got half a tuna sandwich.

Buckaroo Banzai:
Same one you had yesterday? Anybody got any fugu?

(I offer him a sliver of the poisonous Japanese blow-fish. Depending on how it is prepared, it is either indescribably delicious or deadly.)

Sitting here, looking at my notes of our performance in Atlantic City, the night of the Jet Car test, the smell of fermented mare’s milk evokes a train of memories from the early days to the present. I am immobilized by the image of Rawhide, our dear departed friend, offering Buckaroo a tuna fish sandwich from his hat, a half-eaten mouldy piece of fodder which even the voracious Buckarro tosses back as unfit for human consumption. Nearby sits Professor Hikita, brow furrowed in puzzlement as he studies slides through a spectroscope and tries to concentrate in the noisome room which reeks of stale spirits and concerts past. Fermented mare’s milk, coffee, and beer are passed around; gorgeous women flit silently through, ready for instant action, awaiting only a chance word or a curious glance, while outside in the waiting audience young hearts beat fast with anticipation that syncopated music will soon begin.

And it isn’t long in coming. Someone shouts, “Perfect Tommy’s here,” and in pads the culprit, guilt written all over his face. With him is the network commentator, no longer on her way to Cambodia, instead intent on a little spade work where we’re concerned. Is it true you’re all sharpshooters? she asks. Yes. Like the FBI? Somewhat, although we are not crime solvers in the main. Then what are you? She explains apologetically that she is our biggest fan but has been instructed by her network to ask some “hard” questions. I accordingly refer her to a paper issued by the Banzai Institute which lays out our aims, philosophy, and sources of funding, pointing out that we are a non-profit enterprise in all respects. As for our constitutional powers, I say, we have none, unless you consider the extraordinary rights accorded every U.S. citizen by law, in which case we are amply empowered to go about our business. What is your business? she persists. Adventure, I reply.

My chief calls. “Everybody ready?” says Buckaroo. We assent, with the glorious exception of Tommy who is still furiously tuning his guitars. The owner of the club, Artie, comes in, summoning us to the stage. Full of bluster and loud of voice, he is actually a self-made parody of a hepcat, a necessity in this rough-and-tumble syncopated music club.

“You guys gonna play music or play with your chemistry sets?” he says. We all ignore him, feigning indifference. “I don’t care if you drove through a rock this morning. That’s Texas! This is New Jersey! I want some music outta you characters!”

Buckaroo observes Tommy through narrow eyes, restraining comment, when suddenly Professor Hikita leaps to his feet, his face deathly pale.

“Look at this, Buckaroo!” he exclaims, bringing over the slides and the spectroscope. “It’s growing!”

We crowd around, eagerly wanting to see for ourselves, each with his own theory.

(Buckaroo peers through the spectroscope.)

Buckaroo Banzai:
It does seem to be larger. Have you phoned the Institute?

Professor Hikita:
I’ve told them to run immediate tests, measuring its response to electricity.

Perfect Tommy:
Electricity? What are you talking about?

Rawhide:
Are you tuned up?

Perfect Tommy:
I’m ready. What’s on the slide, Prof?

Professor Hikita:
A smear of the specimen Buckaroo pulled off the Jet Car drive shaft.

Perfect Tommy:
You mean the thing he picked up in the other dimension?

Rawhide:
Exactly.

(The network commentator, thrilled to hear this . . .)

Commentator:
What? You brought something back from the other dimension? Something alive? Where is it?

Professor Hikita:
At the Banzai Institute, in an Igloo box, undergoing tests.

Commentator:
In quarantine? Then there is possible danger?

Buckaroo Banzai:
This will all be explained tomorrow at the press conference.

An explanation I’d like to hear myself, I remember thinking, as at last we head toward the stage, stepping into a small antiquated elevator for the descent. As the somber machinery takes us down, we talk freely among ourselves about what we had seen on the spectroscopic slide.

Perfect Tommy:
Is it alive or dead? That would seem to be the key question.

Reno:
Obviously it’s alive—if it’s growing.

Rawhide:
Not necessarily. Crystals grow in inorganic chemical reactions. You can’t say they’re alive.

Reno:
You have a point. On the other hand—what is life?

Perfect Tommy:
On the other hand, those were like no crystals I’ve ever seen on the slide. Without even being able to identify the compound, I’d say this conversation is pointless.

Buckaroo Banzai:
Right, let’s keep our minds on music.

Thus, we were left to ponder, with only superficial scrutiny of the strange object which I have called a parasite, its significance. It is no wonder human beings become crazed in the twentieth century with so much to contend with daily. I’m sure it crossed all our minds. What is this strain from a place we cannot even name? What have we unleashed? Is there a chance of its springing upon an unsuspecting world, in the manner of classic science fiction? Of course. There is always a chance, miniscule as we might wish to portray it. Scientific progress is always fraught with unknown risks. In fact, even as we gained the stage, beads of sweat glistening from our faces, we could not know that the real danger to our planet was already poised to strike from another quarter.

I
t is in the nature of the mentally ill to wage acts of war upon themselves, and, as I have said, the gods had not been kind to Dr. Emilio Lizardo. His strength undermined, he passed the years in tedious watching and waiting, living in constant terror of himself, some dread act he might commit. At least this was how he must have seemed to his warders, long since accustomed to hearing his wild tales about someone named John Whorfin or finding desperate notes in his hand shoved beneath his door. They were short and vague. “Whorfin is a stowaway!” he might write. Or, “This is America!”

Naturally there was no tangible evidence against anyone. Apart from his impassioned entreaties, there was no record of a John Whorfin having existed on this planet. Indeed, such a being in the flesh had not; and yet it was John Whorfin who had pulled Lizardo into the shadows of the underworld and into this manic bin, seeking an ally.

It was the same John Whorfin who often gripped Lizardo’s hand as it held a bread knife and thrust the long narrow shaft into an electrical wall socket. While the stricken Lizardo gave hoarse, inarticulate cries, John Whorfin convulsed in ecstasy. For an instant, the brow of the scientist and the eyes of the madman danced violently at odds before the body fell back limp and quivering, Whorfin’s ravenous hunger for electricity momentarily sated. After such sessions, he was surly and, quite literally, drunk with power, bubbling over as if a quart of brandy had passed his lips; and this evening was no exception, as he lay back and listened with a snarl to the night guard’s key grating in his lock.

“Hello, Jack,” Whorfin muttered. “Come to tell me your problems?”

The guard Jack, intoxicated himself, thanks to Xan’s doing, gazed around Whorfin’s room in despair. In such filthy disarray that it might as well have been lined with straw, the room, in its way, resisted intruders. It would have taken days to search it systematically.

“All right, Doc, I’ve come for your little TV,” said Jack. “You been using too much damn juice . . . Beats me how one old homicidal loony could use that much power.”

Whorfin shrugged, sitting in that part of the room which was a sort of bedroom. “Fine with me. Take it.”

“Where is it?”

Whorfin pointed to a spot near his chair where, under a small pile of refuse, the television was still playing, its gleam now catching the guard’s eye.

“Take it,” Whorfin said, making a theatrical gesture with his right hand, while in his left, prehensile lingers curved more tightly around the knife.

The guard made his way cautiously, flipping on his pocket torch. He was middle-aged and had a round, fleshy face. Involuntarily almost, he came closer, chary of the compelling magnetism of the old man’s eyes, his sonorous voice, and air of mystery.

“It’s all right,” said Whorfin. “I don’t need the TV anymore. Do you want to know why?”

“Why?” asked Jack.

Whorfin burst into a roar of laughter which chilled Jack’s soul, and yet he came closer, reaching for the television, visibly trembling.

“What’s the matter?” said Whorfin.

Jack tried not to meet Whorfin’s mocking gaze but found it impossible to look away. “Maybe I’ll come back later,” he said.

Whorfin smiled an ironical smile. “You know I have some reputation as a seer, Jack,” he said.

“You’re a deep one, all right,” agreed Jack.

“Then come closer. I have something to tell you.” Jack crept closer, all his efforts to resist proving unavailing. Inwardly Whorfin was already crouching, ready for violent action. His masterful eyes seemed pleased at the look of alarm on his quarry’s face, as it took another step. “What I have to tell you is—”

Jack leaned closer, when suddenly, with no warning, Whorfin’s hand flicked out with astonishing strength, driving the knife into Jack’s stomach and out between his vertebrae. With an exhalation Jack fell forward, and Whorfin lifted him cleanly off the ground.

“What I have to tell you is—” said Whorfin “—I can’t help you.”

The shock, so to say, of what he had done made no mark on him whatever, as he greedily snatched his victim’s keys and fled. What happened in the following minutes I do not know, although the odor of Xan is unmistakable throughout. What is known for certain is that Whorfin wreaked havoc upon various defenseless fellow inmates and delivered a fearful blow to a video game machine bearing a likeness of Buckaroo Banzai before fleeing in a sports car belonging to one of the staff physicians. Who assisted him in his getaway I am not prepared to say, but it is demonstrable fact that neither Whorfin nor Lizardo could drive, in which case the accusing finger would seem to point to Xan’s toady Lo Pep, a shady figure with New York and Hong Kong connections who disappeared that night and has not been seen since. It does not strain credibility to think that he may have relaxed his vigilance in Whorfin’s presence and ended up the poorer for it, perhaps floating face down in some New Jersey marsh.

At all events, Whorfin was free, and our own problems were just beginning.