The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch (5 page)

Without opening her eyes Pat said in a low voice, “I’m here, too. This is Helen.” She added, “And also Mary. But we’re not using your supply of Can-D, Sam; we brought some we had already.” She put her arms around him as the three inhabitants of Perky Pat joined in unison in one endeavor. Taken by surprise, Sam Regan broke contact with Tod Morris; he joined the effort of Norm Schein, and Walt sat back away from Perky Pat.

The waves of the ocean lapped at the two of them as they silently reclined together on the beach, two figures comprising the essences of six persons. Two in six, Sam Regan thought. The mystery repeated; how is it accomplished? The old question again. But all I care about, he thought, is whether they’re using up my Can-D. And I bet they are; I don’t care what they say: I don’t believe them.

Rising to her feet Perky Pat said, “Well, I can see I might just as well go for a swim; nothing’s doing here.” She padded into the water, splashed away from them as they sat in their body, watching her go.

“We missed our chance,” Tod Morris thought wryly.

“My fault,” Sam admitted. By joining, he and Tod managed to stand; they walked a few steps after the girl and then, ankle-deep in the water, halted.

Already Sam Regan could feel the power of the drug wearing off; he felt weak and afraid and bitterly sickened at the realization. So goddam soon, he said to himself. All over; back to the hovel, to the pit in which we twist and cringe like worms in a paper bag, huddled away from the daylight. Pale and white and awful. He shuddered.

—Shuddered, and saw, once more, his compartment with its tinny bed, washstand, desk, kitchen stove…and, in slumped, inert heaps, the empty husks of Tod and Helen Morris, Fran and Norm Schein, his own wife Mary; their eyes stared emptily and he looked away, appalled.

On the floor between them was his layout; he looked down and saw the dolls, Walt and Pat, placed at the edge of the ocean, near the parked Jaguar. Sure enough, Perky Pat had on the near-invisible Swedish swimsuit, and next to them reposed a tiny picnic basket.

And, by the layout, a plain brown wrapper that had contained Can-D; the five of them had chewed it out of existence, and even now as he looked—against his will—he saw a thin trickle of shiny brown syrup emerge from each of their slack, will-less mouths.

Across from him Fran Schein stirred, opened her eyes, moaned; she focused on him, then wearily sighed.

“They got to us,” he said.

“We took too long.” She rose unsteadily, stumbled, and almost fell; at once he was up, too, catching hold of her. “You were right; we should have done it right away if we intended to. But—” She let him hold her, briefly. “I like the preliminaries. Walking along the beach, showing you the swimsuit that is no swimsuit.” She smiled a little.

Sam said, “They’ll be out for a few more minutes, I bet.”

Wide-eyed, Fran said, “Yes, you’re right.” She skipped away from him, to the door; tugging it open, she disappeared out into the hall. “In our compartment,” she called back. “Hurry!”

Pleased, he followed. It was too amusing; he was convulsed with laughter. Ahead of him the girl scampered up the ramp to her level of the hovel; he gained on her, caught hold of her as they reached her compartment. Together they tumbled in, rolled giggling and struggling across the hard metal floor to bump against the far wall.

We won after all, he thought as he deftly unhooked her bra, began to unbutton her shirt, unzipped her skirt, and removed her laceless slipperlike shoes in one swift operation; he was busy everywhere and Fran sighed, this time not wearily.

“I better lock the door.” He rose, hurried to the door and shut it, fastening it securely. Fran, meanwhile, struggled out of her undone clothes.

“Come back,” she urged. “Don’t just watch.” She piled them in a hasty heap, shoes on top like two paperweights.

He descended back to her side and her swift, clever fingers began on him; dark eyes alit she worked away, to his delight.

And right here in their dreary abode on Mars. And yet—they had still managed it in the old way, the sole way: through the drug brought in by the furtive pushers. Can-D had made this possible; they continued to require it. In no way were they free.

As Fran’s knees clasped his bare sides he thought, And in no way do we want to be. In fact just the opposite. As his hand traveled down her flat, quaking stomach he thought, We could even use a little more.

FOUR

At the reception desk at James Riddle Veterans’ Hospital at Base III on Ganymede, Leo Bulero tipped his expensive hand-fashioned wubfur derby to the girl in her starched white uniform and said, “I’m here to see a patient, a Mr. Eldon Trent.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the girl began, but he cut her off.

“Tell him Leo Bulero is here. Got it? Leo Bulero.” And he saw past her hand, to the register; he saw the number of Eldritch’s room. As the girl turned to the switchboard he strode in the direction of that number. The hell with waiting, he said to himself; I came millions of miles and I expect to see the man or the thing, whichever it is.

An armed UN soldier with a rifle halted him at the door, a very young man with clear, cold eyes like a girl’s; eyes that emphatically said no, even to him.

“Okay,” Leo grumbled. “I get the picture. But if he knew who it was out here he’d say let me in.”

Beside him, at his ear, startling him, a sharp female voice said, “How did you find out my father was here, Mr. Bulero?”

He turned and saw a rather heavy-set woman in her mid-thirties; she regarded him intently and he thought, This is Zoe Eldritch. I ought to know; she’s on the society pages of the homeopapes enough.

A UN official approached. “Miss Eldritch, if you’d like we can evict Mr. Bulero from this building; it’s up to you.” He smiled pleasantly at Leo and all at once Leo identified him. This was the chief of the UN’s legal division, Ned Lark’s superior, Frank Santina. Dark-eyed, alert, somatically vibrant, Santina looked quickly from Leo to Zoe Eldritch, waiting for a response.

“No,” Zoe Eldritch said at last. “At least not right now. Not until I find out how he found out dad is here; he can’t know. Can you, Mr. Bulero?”

Santina murmured, “Through one of his Pre-Fash precogs, probably. Isn’t that so, Bulero?”

Presently Leo, reluctantly, nodded.

“You see, Miss Eldritch,” Santina explained, “a man like Bulero can hire anything he wants, any form of talent. So we expected him.” He indicated the two uniformed armed guards at Palmer Eldritch’s door. “That’s why we require both of them at all times. As I tried to explain.”

“Isn’t there any way I can do business with Eldritch?” Leo demanded. “That’s what I came here for; I’ve got nothing illegal in mind. I think all of you are nuts, or else you’re trying to hide something; maybe you’ve got guilty consciences.” He eyed them, but saw nothing. “Is it really Palmer Eldritch in there?” he asked. “I bet it isn’t.” Again he got no response; neither of them rose to the jibe. “I’m tired,” he said. “It was a long-type trip here. The hell with it; I’m going to go get something to eat and then I’m going to find a hotel room and sleep for ten hours and forget this.” Turning, he stalked off.

Neither Santina nor Miss Eldritch tried to stop him. Disappointed, he continued on, feeling oppressive disgust.

Obviously he would have to reach Palmer Eldritch through some medium agency. Perhaps, he reflected, Felix Blau and his private police could gain entry here. It was worth a try.

But once he became this depressed, nothing seemed to matter. Why not do as he had said, eat and then get some needed rest, forget about reaching Eldritch for the time being? The hell with all of them, he said to himself as he left the hospital building and marched out onto the sidewalk to search for a cab. That daughter, he thought. Tough-looking, like a lesbian, with her hair cut short and no makeup. Ugh.

He found a cab and rode airborne for a time while he pondered.

Using the cab’s vidsystem he contacted Felix back on Earth.

“I’m glad you called,” Felix Blau said, as soon as he made out who it was. “There’s an organization that’s come into existence in Boston under strange circumstances; it
seems
to have sprung up overnight completely intact, including—”

“What’s it doing?”

“They’re preparing to market something; the machinery is there, including three ad satellites, similar to your own, one on Mars, one on Io, one on Titan. The rumor we hear is that they’re preparing to approach the market with a commodity directly competing with your own Perky Pat layouts. It’ll be called Connie Companion Doll.” He smiled briefly. “Isn’t that cute?”

Leo said, “What about—you know. The additive.”

“No information on that. Assuming there is one, it would be beyond the legal scope of merchandising operations, presumably. Is a min layout any use minus the—‘additive’?”

“No.”

“Then that would seem to answer that.”

Leo said, “I called you to find out if you can get me in to see Palmer Eldritch. I’ve located him here at Base III on Ganymede.”

“You recall my report on Eldritch’s importation of a lichen similar to that used in the manufacture of Can-D. Has it occurred to you that this new Boston outfit may have been set up by Eldritch? Although it would seem rather soon for that; however, he could have radioed ahead years ago to his daughter.”

“I’ve got to see him,” Leo said.

“It’s James Riddle Hospital, I assume. We thought he might be there. By the way; you ever heard of a man named Richard Hnatt?”

“Never.”

“A rep from this new Boston outfit met with him and transacted some kind of business deal. This rep, Icholtz—”

“What a mess,” Leo said. “And I can’t even get to Eldritch; Santina is hanging around at the door, along with that dike daughter of Palmer’s.” No one would get past the two of them, he decided.

He gave Felix Blau the address of a hotel at Base III, the one at which he had left his baggage, and then rang off.

I bet he’s right, he said to himself. Palmer Eldritch is this competitor. Just my luck: I have to be in the particular line that Eldritch, on his way back from Prox, decides to enter. Why couldn’t I be making rocket guidance systems and be only competing with G.E. and General Dynamics?

Now he really wondered about the lichen which Eldritch had brought with him. An improvement on Can-D, perhaps. Cheaper to produce, capable of creating translation of longer duration and intensity. Jeez!

Mulling, here and now a bizarre recollection came to him. An organization, emanating from the United Arab Republic; trained assassins for hire. Fat chance they would have against Palmer Eldritch…a man like that, once he had made his mind up—

And yet Rondinella Fugate’s precognition remained; in the future he would be arraigned for the murder of Palmer Eldritch.

Evidently he would find a way despite the obstacles.

He had with him a weapon so small, so intangible, that even the most thorough search couldn’t disclose it. Some time ago a surgeon at Washington, D.C. had sewn it into his tongue: a self-guiding, high-velocity poison dart, modeled on Soviet Russian lines…but vastly improved, in that once it had reached its victim it obliterated itself, leaving no remains. The poison, too, was original; it did not curtail heart or respiratory action; in fact it was not a poison but a filterable virus which multiplied in the victim’s blood stream, causing death within forty-eight hours. It was carcinomatous, an importation from one of Uranus’s moons, and still generally unknown; it had cost him a great deal. All he needed to do was stand within arm’s length of his intended victim and manually squeeze the base of his tongue, protruding the same simultaneously in the victim’s direction. So if he could see Eldritch—

And I had better arrange it, he realized, before this new Boston corporation is in production. Before it can function without Eldritch. Like any weed it had to be caught early or not at all.

When he reached his hotel room he placed a call to P. P. Layouts to see if any vital-type messages or events were awaiting his attention.

“Yes,” Miss Gleason said, as soon as she recognized him. “There’s an urgent call from a Miss Impatience White—if that’s her name, if I did get it right. Here’s the number. It’s on Mars.” She held the slip to the vidscreen.

At first Leo could not place any woman named White. And then he identified her—and felt fright. Why had
she
called?

“Thanks,” he mumbled, and at once rang off. God, if the UN legal division had monitored the call…because Impy White, operating out of Mars, was a top pusher of Can-D.

With great reluctance he called the number.

Small-faced and sharp-eyed, pretty in a short sort of way, Impy White obtained on the vidscreen. He had imagined her as much more brawny; she looked quite bantamlike, but fierce, though. “Mr. Bulero, as soon as I say it—”

“There’s no other way? No channels?” A method existed by which Conner Freeman, chief of the Venusian operation, could contact him. Miss White could have worked through Freeman, her superior.

“I visited a hovel, Mr. Bulero, at the south of Mars this morning with a shipment. The hovelists declined. On the grounds they had spent all their skins for a new product. In the same class as—what we sell. Chew-Z.” She went on, “And—”

Leo Bulero rang off. And sat shakily in silence, thinking.

I’ve got to not get rattled, he told himself. After all, I’m an evolved human variety. So this is it; this is that Boston firm’s new product. Derived from Eldritch’s lichen; I have to assume that. He’s lying there on his hospital bed not a mile from me, giving the orders no doubt through Zoe, and there’s not a fligging thing I can do. The operation is all set up and functioning. I’m already too late. Even this thing in my tongue, he realized. It’s futile, now.

But I’ll think of something, he knew. I always do.

This was not the end of P. P. Layouts, exactly.

The only thing was, what
could
he do? It eluded him, and this did not decrease his sweaty, nervous alarm.

Come to me, artificially accelerated cortical-development idea, he said in prayer. God help me to overcome my enemies, the bastards. Maybe if I make use of my Pre-Fash precogs, Roni Fugate and Barney…maybe they can come up with something. Especially that old pro Barney; he hasn’t been brought in on this at all, as yet.

Once more he placed a vidcall to P. P. Layouts back on Terra. This time he requested Barney Mayerson’s department.

And then he remembered Barney’s problem with the draft, his need of developing an inability to endure stress, in order not to wind up in a hovel on Mars.

Grimly, Leo Bulero thought, I’ll provide that proof; for him the danger of being drafted is already over.

When the call came from Leo Bulero on Ganymede, Barney Mayerson was alone in his office.

The conversation did not last long; when he had hung up he glanced at his watch, and marveled. Five minutes. It had seemed a major interval in his life.

Rising, he touched the button of his intercom and said, “Don’t let anyone in for a while. Not even—especially not even—Miss Fugate.” He walked to the window and stood gazing out at the hot, bright, empty street.

Leo was dumping the entire problem in his lap. It was the first time he had seen his employer collapse; imagine, he thought, Leo Bulero baffled—by the first competition that he had ever experienced. He very simply was not used to it. The new Boston company’s existence had totally, for the time being, disoriented him; the man became the child.

Eventually Leo would snap out of it, but meanwhile—
what can I get from this?
Barney Mayerson asked himself, and did not immediately see any answer. I can help Leo…but exactly what can Leo do for me? That was a question more to his liking. In fact, he had to think of it that way; Leo himself had taught him to, over the years. His employer would not have wanted it any other way.

For a time he sat meditating and then, as Leo had directed, he turned his attention to the future. And while he was at it he poked once more into his own draft situation; he tried to see precisely how that would finally resolve itself.

But the topic of his being drafted was too small, too much an iota, to be recorded in the public annals of the great; he could scan no homeopape headlines, hear no newscasts…in Leo’s case, however, it was something else again. Because he previewed a number of ’pape lead articles pertaining to Leo and Palmer Eldritch. Everything of course was blurred, and alternates presented themselves in a chaos of profusion. Leo would meet Eldritch; Leo would not. And—at this he focused intently—Leo arraigned for the murder of Palmer Eldritch; good lord, what did
that
mean?

It meant, he discovered from closer scrutiny, just what it said. And if Leo were arrested, tried, and sentenced, it might mean the termination of P. P. Layouts as a salary-paying enterprise. Hence the end of a career to which he had already sacrificed everything else in his life, his marriage and the woman he—even now!—loved.

Obviously it was to his advantage, a necessity in fact, to warn Leo. And yet even this datum could be turned to advantage.

He phoned Leo back. “I have your news.”

“Good.” Leo beamed, his florid, elongated, rind-topped face suffused with relief. “Go ahead, Barney.”

Barney said, “There will soon be a situation which you can exploit. You can get in to see Palmer Eldritch—not there at the hospital but elsewhere. He’ll be removed from Ganymede by his own order.” He added with caution, not wanting to give away too much of the data he had collected, “There’ll be a falling-out between him and the UN; he’s using them now, while he’s incapacitated, to protect him. But when he’s well—”

“Details,” Leo said at once, cocking his big head alertly.

“There is something I’d like in exchange.”

“For what?” Leo’s palpably evolved face clouded.

Barney said, “In exchange for my telling you the exact date and locus at which you can successfully reach Palmer Eldritch.”

Grumbling, Leo said, “And what d’ya want, for chrissakes?” He eyed Barney apprehensively; E Therapy had not brought tranquillity.

“One quarter of one percent of your gross. Of P. P. Layouts’…not including revenue from any other source.” Meaning the plantation network on Venus where Can-D was obtained.

“Good food in heaven,” Leo said, and breathed raggedly.

“There’s more.”

“What more? I mean, you’ll be rich!”

“And I want a restructuring of your use of Pre-Fash consultants. Each will stay at his post, nominally handle the job he has now, but with this alteration. All their decisions will be referred to me for final review; I’ll have the ultimate say-so on their determinations. So I no longer will represent any one region; you can turn New York over to Roni as soon as—”