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Alfred Bester. The Demolished Man

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ate pattern of sensory images that made Church's starvation keener.
"Would you like a drink, Jerry?"
The garden door opened. Powell stood silhouetted in the light, a bubbling
glass in his hand. The stars lit his face softly. The deep hooded eyes were
compassionate and understanding. Dazed, Church climbed to his feet and timidly
took the proffered drink.
"Don't report this to the Guild, Jerry. I'll catch hell for breaking the
taboo. I'm always breaking rules. Poor Jerry... We've got to do something for
you. Ten years is too long."
Suddenly Church hurled the drink in Powell's face, then turned and fled.





3



At nine Monday morning, Tate's mannequin face appeared on the screen of
Reich's v-phone.
"Is this line secure?" he asked sharply.
In answer Reich simply pointed to the Warranty Seal.
"All right," Tate said. "I think I've done the job for you, I peeped @kins
last night. But before I report, I must warn you. There's a chance of error
when you deep peep a 1st. @kins blocked pretty carefully."
"I understand."
"Craye D'Courtney arrives from Mars on the `Astra' next Wednesday morning.
He will go at once to Maria Beaumont's town house where he will be a secret
and hidden guest for exactly one night... No more."
"One night," Reich muttered. "And then? His plans?"
"I don't know. Apparently D'Courtney is planning some form of drastic
action---"
"Against me!" Reich growled.
"Perhaps. According to @kins, D'Courtney is under some kind of violent strain
and his adaptation pattern is shattering. The Life Instinct and Death Instinct
have defused. He is regressing under the emotional bankruptcy very rapidly..."
"God damn it! My life depends on this," Reich raged. "Talk straight."
"It's quite simple. Every man is a balance of two opposed drives... The
Life Instinct and the Death Instinct. Both drives have the identical
purpose... to win Nirvana. The Life Instinct fights for Nirvana by smashing
all opposition. The Death Instinct attempts to win Nirvana by destroying
itself. Usually both instincts fuse in the adapted individual. Under strain
they defuse. That's what's happening to D'Courtney."
"Yes, by God! And he's jetting for me!"
"@kins will see D'Courtney Thursday morning in an effort to dissuade him from
whatever he contemplates. @kins is afraid of it and determined to stop it. He
made a flying trip from Venus to cut D'Courtney off."
"He won't have to stop it. I'll stop it myself. He won't have to protect me.
I'll protect myself. It's self-defense, Tate... not murder! Self-defense!
You've done a good job. This is all I need."
"You need much more, Reich. Among other things, time. This is Monday. You'll
have to be ready by Wednesday."
"I'll be ready," Reich growled. "You'd better be ready too."
"We can't afford to fail, Reich. If we do---it's Demolition. You realized
that?"
"Demolition for both of us. I realize that." Reich's voice began to crack.
"Yes, Tate, you're in this with me, and I'm in it straight to the finish...
all the way to Demolition."
He planned all through Monday, audaciously, bravely, with confidence. He
pencilled the outlines as an artist fills a sheet with delicate tracery before
the bold inking-in; but he did no final inking. That was to be left for the
killer-instinct on Wednesday. He put the plan away and slept Monday night...
and awoke screaming, dreaming again of The Man With No Face.
Tuesday afternoon, Reich left Monarch Tower early and dropped in at the
Century Audio-bookstore on Sheridan Place. It specialized mostly in
piezoelectric crystal recordings... tiny jewels mounted in elegant settings.
The latest vogue was brooch-operas for M'lady. ("She Shall Have Music Wherever
She Goes.") Century also had shelves of obsolete printed books.
"I want something special for a friend I've neglected," Reich told the
salesman.
He was bombarded with merchandise.
"Not special enough," he complained. "Why don't you people hire a peeper and
save your clients this trouble? How quaint and old-fashioned can you get?" He
began sauntering around the shop, tailed by a retinue of anxious clerks.
After he had dissembled sufficiently, and before the worried manager could
send out for a peeper salesman, Reich stopped before the bookshelves.
"What's this?" he inquired in surprise.
"Antique books, Mr. Reich." The sales staff began explaining the theory and
practice of the archaic visual book while Reich slowly searched for the
tattered brown volume that was his goal. He remembered it well. He had glanced
through it five years ago and made a note in his little black opportunity
book. Old Geoffry Reich wasn't the only Reich who believed in preparedness.
"Interesting. Yes. Fascinating. What's this one?" Reich pulled down the brown
volume." `Let's Play Party.' What's the date on it? Not Really. You mean to
say they had parties that long ago?"
The staff assured him that the ancients were very modern in many astonishing
ways.
"Look at the contents," Reich chuckled. "`Honeymoon Bridge'... `Prussian
Whist'... `Post Office'... `Sardine.' What in the world could that be? Page
ninety-six. Let's have a look."
Reich flipped pages until he came to a bold-face heading: HILARIOUS MIXED
PARTY GAMES. "Look at this," he laughed, pretending surprise. He pointed to
the well-remembered paragraph.


SARDINE


One player is selected to be It. All the lights are extinguished and the It
hides anywhere in the house. After a few minutes, the players go to find the
It, hunting separately. The first one who finds him does not reveal the fact
but hides with him wherever he may be. Successively each player finding the
Sardines joins them until all are hidden in one place and the last player, who
is the loser, is left to wander alone in the dark.


"I'll take it," Reich said. "It's exactly what I need."
That evening he spent three hours carefully defacing the remains of the
volume. With heat, acid, stain, and scissors, he mutilated the game
instructions; and every bum, every cut, every slash was a blow at D'Courtney's
writhing body. When his proxy murders were finished, he had reduced every game
to incomplete fragments. Only "Sardine" was left intact.
Reich wrapped the book, addressed it to Graham, the appraiser, and dropped
it into the airslot. It went off with a puff and a bang and returned an hour
later with Graham's official sealed appraisal. Reich's mutilations had not
been detected.
He had the book gift-wrapped with the appraisal enclosed (as was the
custom) and slotted it to Maria Beaumont's house. Twenty minutes later came
the reply: "Darling! Darling! Darling! I thot you'd forgotten (evidently Maria
had written the note herself) little ol sexy me. How 2 divine. Come to
Beaumont House tonite. We're having a party. We'll play games from your sweet
gift." There was a portrait of Maria centered in the star of a synthetic ruby
enclosed in the message capsule. A nude portrait, naturally.
Reich answered: "Devastated. Not tonight. One of my millions is missing."
She answered: "Wednesday, you clever boy. I'll give you one of mine."
He replied: "Delighted to accept. Will bring guest. I kiss all of yours."
And went to bed.
And screamed at The Man With No Face.


Wednesday morning, Reich visited Monarch's Science-city ("Paternalism, you
know.") and spent a stimulating hour with its bright young men. He discussed
their work and their glowing futures if they would only have faith in Monarch.
He told the ancient dirty joke about the celibate pioneer who made the
emergency landing on the hearse in deep space (and the corpse said: "I'm just
one of the tourists!") and the bright young men laughed subserviently, feeling
slightly contemptuous of the boss.
This informality enabled Reich to drift into the Restricted Room and pick
up one of the visual knockout capsules. They were cubes of copper, half the
size of fulminating caps, but twice as deadly. When they were broken open,
they erupted a dazzling blue flare that ionized the Rhodopsin---the visual
purple in the retina of the eye---blinding the victim and abolishing his
perception of time and space.
Wednesday afternoon, Reich went over to Melody Lane in the heart of the
theatrical district and called on Psych-Songs, Inc. It was run by a clever
young woman who had written some brilliant jingles for his sales division and
some devastating strike-breaking songs for Propaganda back when Monarch needed
everything to smash last year's labor fracas. Her name was Duffy Wyg&. To
Reich she was the epitome of the modern career girl---the virgin seductress.
"Well, Duffy?" He kissed her casually. She was as shapely as a sales-curve,
pretty, but a trifle too young.
"Well, Mr. Reich?" She looked at him oddly. "Some day I'm going to hire
one of those Lonely-Heart Peepers to case your kiss. I keep thinking you don't
mean business."
"I don't."
"Dog."
"A man has to make up his mind early, Duffy. If he kisses girls he kisses
his money goodbye."
"You kiss me."
"Only because you're the image of the lady on the credit."
"Pip," she said.
"Pop," he said.
"Bim," she said.
"Bam," he said.
"I'd like to kill the bem who invented that fad," Duffy said darkly. "All
right, handsome. What's your problem?"
"Gambling," Reich said. "Ellery West, my Rec director, is complaining about
the gambling in Monarch. Says there's too much. Personally I don't care."
"Keep a man in debt and he's afraid to ask for a raise."
"You're entirely too smart, young lady."
"So you want a no-gamble-type song?"
"Something like that. Catchy. Not too obvious. More a delayed action than a
straight propaganda tune. I'd like the conditioning to be more or less
unconscious."
Duffy nodded and made quick notes.
"And make it a tune worth hearing. I'll have to listen to God knows how many
people singing and whistling and humming it."
"You louse. All my tunes are worth hearing."
"Once."
"That's a thousand extra on your tab."
Reich laughed. "Speaking of monotony..." he continued smoothly.
"Which we weren't."
"What's the most persistent tune you ever wrote?"
"Persistent?"
"You know what I mean. Like those advertising jingles you can't get out of
your head."
"Oh. Pepsis, we call 'em."
"Why?"
"Dunno. They say because the first one was written centuries ago by a
character named Pepsi. I don't buy that. I wrote one once..." Duffy winced in
recollection. "Hate to think of it even now. Guaranteed to obsess you for a
month. It haunted me for a year."
"You're rocketting."
"Scout's honor, Mr. Reich. It was `Tenser, Said The Tensor.' I wrote it for
that flop show about the crazy mathematician. They wanted nuisance value and
they sure got it. People got so sore they had to withdraw it. Lost a fortune."
"Let's hear it."
"I couldn't do that to you."
"Come on, Duffy. I'm really curious."
"You'll regret it"
"I don't believe you."
"All right, pig," she said, and pulled the punch panel toward her. "This
pays you back for that no-guts kiss."
Her fingers and palm slipped gracefully over the panel. A tune of utter
monotony filled the room with agonizing, unforgettable banality. It was the
quintessence of every melodic cliche Reich had ever heard. No matter what
melody you tried to remember, it invariably led down the path of familiarity
to "Tenser, Said The Tensor." Then Duffy began to sing:



Eight, sir; seven, sir;
Six, sir; five, sir;
Four, sir; three, sir;
Two, sir; one!
Tenser, said the Tensor.
Tenser, said the Tensor.
Tension, apprehension,
And dissension have begun.


"Oh my God!" Reich exclaimed.
"I've got some real gone tricks in that tune," Duffy said, still playing.
"Notice the beat after `one'? That's a semicadence. Then you get another beat
after `begun.' That turns the end of the song into a semicadence, too, so you
can't ever end it. The beat keeps you running in circles, like: Tension,
apprehension, and dissension have begun. RIFF. Tension, apprehension, and
dissension have begun. RIFF. Tension, appre---"
"You little devil!" Reich started to his feet, pounding his palms on his ears.
"I'm accursed. How long is this affliction going to last?"
"Not more than a month."
"Tension, apprehension, and diss---I'm ruined. Isn't there any way out?"
"Sure," Duffy said. "It's easy. Just ruin me." She pressed herself against him
and planted an earnest young kiss. "Lout," she murmured. "Pig. Boob. Dolt.
When are you going to drag me through the gutter? Clever-up, dog. Why aren't
you as smart as I think you are?"
"I'm smarter," he said and left.
As Reich had planned, the song established itself firmly in his mind and
echoed again and again all the way down to the street. Tenser, said the
Tensor. Tenser, said the Tensor. Tension, apprehension, and dissension have
begun. RIFF. A perfect mind-block for a non-Esper. What peeper could get past
that? Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun.
"Much smarter," murmured Reich, and flagged a Jumper to Jerry Church's
pawnshop on the upper west side.
Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun.


Despite all rival claims, pawnbroking is still the oldest profession. The
business of lending money on portable security is the most ancient of human
occupations. It extends from the depths of the past to the uttermost reaches
of the future, as unchanging as the pawnbroker's shop itself. You walked into
Jerry Church's cellar store, crammed and littered with the debris of time, and
you were in a museum of eternity. And even Church himself, wizened, peering,
his face blackened and bruised by the internal blows of suffering, embodied
the ageless money-lender.
Church shuffled out of the shadows and came face to face with Reich, standing
starkly illuminated in a patch of sunlight slanting across the counter. He did
not start. He did not acknowledge Reich's identity. Brushing past the man who
for ten years had been his mortal enemy, he placed himself behind the counter
and said: "Yes, please?"
"Hello, Jerry."
Without looking up. Church extended his hand across the counter. Reich
attempted to clasp it. It was snatched away.
"No," Church said with a snarl that was half hysterical laugh. "Not that,
thank you. Just give me what you want to pawn."
It was the peeper's sour little trap, and he had tumbled into it. No matter.
"I haven't anything to pawn, Jerry."
"As poor as that? How the mighty have fallen. But we must expect it, eh? We
all fall. We all fall."
Church glanced sidelong at him, trying to peep him. Let him try. Tension,
apprehension, and dissension have begun. Let him get through the crazy tune
rattling in his head.
"All of us fall," Church said. "All of us."
"I expect so, Jerry. I haven't yet. I've been lucky."
"I wasn't lucky," the peeper leered. "I met you."
"Jerry," Reich said patiently. "I've never been your bad luck. It was your
own luck that ruined you. Not---"
"You God damned bastard," Church said in a horribly soft voice. "You God
damned eater of slok. May you rot before you die. Get out of here. I want
nothing to do with you. Nothing! Understand?"
"Not even my money?" Reich withdrew ten gleaming sovereigns from his pocket
and placed them on the counter. It was a subtle touch. Unlike the credit, the
sovereign was the coin of the underworld. Tension, apprehension, and
dissension have begun...
"Least of all your money. I want your heart cut open. I want your blood
spilling on the ground. I want the maggots eating the eyes out of your living
head... But I don't want your money."
"Then what do you want, Jerry?"
"I told you!" the peeper screamed. "I told you! You God damned lousy---"
"What do you want, Jerry?" Reich repeated coldly, keeping his eyes on the
wizened man. Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun. He could
still control Church. It didn't matter that Church had been a 2nd. Control
wasn't a question of peeping. It was a question of personality. Eight, sir;
seven, sir; six, sir; five, sir... He always had... He always would control
Church.
"What do you want?" Church asked sullenly.
Reich snorted. "You're the peeper. You tell me."
"I don't know," Church muttered after a pause. "I can't read it. There's crazy
music mixing everything up..."
"Then I'll have to tell you. I want a gun."
"A what?"
"G-U-N. Gun. Ancient weapon. It propels projectiles by explosion."
"I haven't anything like that."
"Yes, you do, Jerry. Keno Quizzard mentioned it to me some time ago. He saw
it. Steel and collapsible. Very interesting."
"What do you want it for?"
"Read me, Jerry, and find out. I haven't anything to hide. It's all quite
innocent."
Church screwed up his face, then quit in disgust.
"Isn't worth the trouble," he mumbled and shuffled off into the shadows. There
was a distant slamming of metal drawers. Church returned with a compact nodule
of tarnished steel and placed it on the counter alongside the money. He
pressed a stud and the lump of metal sprang open into steel knuckle-rings,
revolver and stiletto. It was a XXth Century knife-pistol... the quintessence
of murder.
"What do you want it for?" Church asked again.
"You're hoping it's something that can lead to black-mail, eh?" Reich
smiled. "Sorry. It's a gift."
"A dangerous gift." The ostracized peeper gave him that sidelong glance of
snarl and laugh. "Ruination for someone else, eh?"
"Not at all, Jerry. It's a gift for a friend of mine. Dr. Augustus Tate."
"Tate!" Church stared at him.
"Do you know him? He collects old things."
"I know him. I know him." Church began to chuckle asthmatically. "But I'm
beginning to know him better. I'm beginning to feel sorry for him." He stopped
laughing and shot a penetrating glance at Reich. "Of course. This will make a
lovely gift for Gus. A perfect gift for Gus. Because it's loaded."
"Oh? Is it loaded?"
"Oh yes indeed. It's loaded. Five lovely cartridges." Church cackled
again. "A gift for Gus." He touched a cam. A cylinder snapped out of the side
of the gun displaying five chambers filled with brass cartridges. He looked
from the cartridges to Reich. "Five serpent's teeth to give to Gus."
"I told you this was innocent," Reich said in a hard voice. "We'll have to
pull those teeth."
Church stared at him in astonishment, then he trotted down the aisle and
returned with two small tools. Quickly he wrenched each of the bullets from
the cartridges. He slid the harmless cartridge cases back into the chambers,
snapped the cylinder home and then placed the gun alongside the money.
"All safe," he said brightly. "Safe for dear little Gus." He looked at Reich
expectantly. Reich extended both hands. With one he pushed the money toward
Church. With the other he drew the gun toward himself. At that instant, Church
changed again. The air of chirpy madness left him. He grasped Reich's wrists
with iron claws and bent across the counter with blazing intensity.
"No, Ben," he said, using the name for the first time. "That isn't the
price. You know it. Despite that crazy song in your head, I know you know it."
"All right, Jerry," Reich said steadily, never relaxing his hold on the
gun. "What is the price? How much?"
"I want to be reinstated," the peeper said. "I want to get back into the
Guild. I want to be alive again. That's the price."
"What can I do? I'm not a peeper. I don't belong to the Guild."
"You're not helpless, Ben. You've got ways and means. You could get to the
Guild. You could have me reinstated."
"Impossible."
"You can bribe, blackmail, intimidate... bless, dazzle, fascinate. You can
do it, Ben. You can do it for me. Help me, Ben. I helped you, once."
"I paid through the nose for that help."
"And I? What did I pay?" the peeper screamed. "I paid with my life!"
"You paid with your stupidity."
"For God's sake, Ben. Help me. Help me or kill me. I'm dead already. I just
haven't the guts to commit suicide."
After a pause, Reich said brutally: "I think the best thing for you, Jerry,
would be suicide."
The peeper flung himself back as though he had been branded. In his bruised
face his eyes stared glassily at Reich.
"Now tell me the price," Reich said.
Quite deliberately, Church spat on the money, then levelled a glance of
hurtling hatred at Reich. "There will be no charge," he said, and turned and
disappeared into the shadows of the cellar.




4



Until it was destroyed for reasons lost in the misty confusion of the late
XXth Century, the Pennsylvania Station in New York City was, unknown to
millions of travellers, a link in time. The interior of the giant terminal was
a replica of the mighty Baths of Caracalla in ancient Rome. So also was the
sprawling mansion of Madame Maria Beaumont, known to her thousand most
intimate enemies as The Gilt Corpse.
As Ben Reich glided down the east ramp with Dr. Tate at his side and murder in
his pocket, he communicated with his senses in staccatto spurts. The sight of
the guests on the floor below... The glitter of uniforms, of dress, of
phosphorescent flesh, of beams of pastel light swaying on stilt legs...
Tenser, said the Tensor...
The sound of voices, of music, of annunciators, of echoes... Tension,
apprehension, and dissension... The wonderful potpourri of flesh and perfume,
of food, of wine, of gilt ostentation... Tension, apprehension...
The gilt trappings of death... Of something, by God, which has failed for
seventy years... A lost art... As lost as phlebotomy, chirurgery, alchemy...
I'll bring death back. Not the hasty, crazy killing of the psychotic, the
brawler... but the normal, deliberate, planned, cold-blooded---
"For God's sake!" Tate murmured. "Be careful, man. Your murder's showing."
Eight, sir; seven, sir...
"That's better. Here comes one of the peeper secretaries. He screens the
guests for crashers. Keep singing."
A slender, willowy young man, all gush, all cropped golden hair, all violet
blouse and silver culottes: "Dr. Tate! Mr. Reich! I'm speechless. Actually. I
can't utter word one. Come in! Come in!"
Six, sir; five, sir...
Maria Beaumont clove through the crowd, arms outstretched, eyes outstretched,
naked bosom outstretched... her body transformed by pneumatic surgery into an
exagerated East Indian figure with puffed hips, puffed calves and puffed gilt
breasts. To Reich she was the painted figurehead of a pornographic ship... the
famous Gilt Corpse.
"Ben, darling creature!" She embraced him with pneumatic intensity, contriving
to press his hand into her cleavage. "It's too too wonderful."
"It's too too plastic, Maria," he murmured in her ear.
"Have you found that lost million yet?"
"Just laid hands on it now, dear."
"Be careful, audacious lover. I'm having every morsel of this divine party
recorded."
Over her shoulder, Reich shot a glance at Tate. Tate shook his head
reassuringly.
"Come and meet everybody who's everybody," Maria said. She took his arm.
"We'll have ages for ourselves later."
The lights in the groined vaults overhead changed again and shifted up the
spectrum. The costumes changed color. Skin that had glowed with pink nacre now
shone with eerie luminescence.
On his left flank, Tate gave the prearranged signal: Danger! Danger! Danger!
Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun. RIFF. Tension,
apprehension, and dissension have begun...
Maria was introducing another effete, all gush, all cropped copper hair, all
fuchsia blouse and Prussian blue culottes.
"Larry Ferar, Ben. My other social secretary. Larry's been dying to meet you."
Four, sir; three, sir...
"Mr. Reich! But too thrilled. I can't utter word one."
Two, sir; one!
The young man accepted Reich's smile and moved on. Still circling in convoy,
Tate gave Reich a reassuring nod. Again the overhead lights changed. Portions
of the guests' costumes appeared to dissolve. Reich, who had never succumbed
to the fashion of wearing ultra-violet windows in his clothes, stood secure in
his opaque suit, watching with contempt the quick, roving eyes around him,
searching, appraising, comparing, desiring.
Tate signalled: Danger! Danger! Danger!
Tenser, said the Tensor...
A secretary appeared at Maria's elbow, "Madame," he lisped, "a slight
contretemps."
"What is it?"
"The Chervil boy. Galen Chervil."
Tate's face constricted.
"What about him?" Maria peeped through the crowd.
"Left of the fountain. An impostor, Madame. I have peeped him. He has no
invitation. He's a college student. He bet he could crash the party. He
intends to steal a picture of you as proof."
"Of me!" Maria said, staring through the windows in young Chervil's clothes.
"What does he think of me?"
"Well, Madame, he's extremely difficult to probe. I think he'd like to steal
more from you than your picture."
"Oh, would he?" Maria cackled delightedly.
"He would, Madame. Shall he be removed?"
"No." Maria glanced once more at the muscular young man, then turned away.
"He'll get his proof."
"And it won't be stolen," Reich said.
"Jealous! Jealous!" she squawked. "Let's dine."
In response to Tate's urgent sign, Reich stepped aside momentarily.
"Reich, you've got to give it up."
"What the hell... ?"
"The Chervil boy."
"What about him?"
"He's a 2nd."
"God damn!"
"He's precocious, brilliant... I met him at Powell's last Sunday. Maria
Beaumont never invites peepers to her house. I'm only in on your pass. I was
depending on that."
"And this peeper kid has to be the one to crash. God damn!"
"Give it up, Reich."
"Maybe I can stay away from him."
"Reich, I can block the social secretaries. They're only 3rds. But I can't
guarantee to handle them and a 2nd too... even if he is only a kid. He's
young. He may be too nervous to do any clever peeping. But I can't promise."
"I'm not quitting," Reich growled. "I can't. I'll never get a chance like this
again. Even if I knew I could, I wouldn't quit. I couldn't. I've got the stink
of D'Courtney in my nostrils. I---"
"Reich, you'll never---"
"Don't argue. I'm going through with it." Reich turned his scowl full on
Tate's nervous face. "I know you're looking for a chance to squirm out of
this; but you won't. We're trapped in this together, right down the line, from
here to Demolition."
He shaped his distorted face into a frozen smile and rejoined his hostess on a
couch alongside one of the tables. It was still the custom for couples to feed
one another at these affairs, but the gesture that had originated in oriental
courtesy and generosity had degenerated into erotic play. The morsels of food
were accompanied by tongue touched to fingers and were as often offered
between the lips. The wine was tasted mouth to mouth. Sweets were given more
intimately.
Reich endured it all with a seething impatience, waiting for the vital word
from Tate. Part of Tate's Intelligence work was to locate D'Courtney's hiding
place in the house. He watched the little peeper drift through the crowd of
diners, probing, prying, searching, until he at last returned with a negative
shake of his head and gestured toward Maria Beaumont. Clearly Maria was the
only source of information, but she was now too excited by sensuality to be
easily probed. It was another in a never-ending series of crises that had to
be met by the killer-instinct. Reich arose and crossed toward the fountain.
Tate intercepted him.
"What are you up to, Reich?"
"Isn't it obvious? I've got to get the Chervil boy off her mind."
"How?"
"Is there any way but one?"
"For God's sake, Reich, don't go near the boy."
"Get out of my way." Reich radiated a burst of savage compulsion that made the
peeper recoil. He signaled in fright and Reich tried to control himself.
"It's taking chances, I know, but the odds aren't as long as you think. In the
first place, he's young and green. In the second place, he's a crasher and
scared. In the third place, he can't be flying full jets or he wouldn't have
let the fag secretaries peep him so easily."
"Have you got any conscious control? Can you double-think?"
"I've got that song on my mind and enough trouble to make doublethinking a
pleasure. Now get the hell out of the way and stand by to peep Maria
Beaumont."
Chervil was eating alone alongside the fountain, clumsily attempting to appear
to belong.
"Pip," said Reich.
"Pop," said Chervil.
"Bim," said Reich.
"Bam," said Chervil.
With the latest fad in informality disposed of, Reich eased himself down
alongside the boy. "I'm Ben Reich."
"I'm Gally Chervil, I mean... Galen. I---" He was visibly impressed by the
name of Reich.
Tension, apprehension, and dissension...
"That damned song," Reich muttered. "Heard it for the first time the other
day. Can't get it out of my mind. Maria knows you're a phoney, Chervil."
"Oh no!"
Reich nodded. Tension, apprehension...
"Should I start running?"
"Without the picture?"
"You know about that too? There must be a peeper in the house."
"Two of them. Her social secretaries. People like you are their job."
"What about that picture, Mr. Reich? I've got fifty credits riding on the
line. You ought to know what a bet means. You're a gamb---I mean, financier."
"Glad I'm not a peeper, eh? Never mind. I'm not insulted. See that arch? Go
straight through and turn right. You'll find a study. The walls are lined with
Maria's portraits, all in synthetic stones. Help yourself. She'll never miss
one."
The boy leaped up, scattering food. "Thanks, Mr. Reich. Some day I'll do you a
favor."
"Such as?"
"You'd be surprised. I happen to be a---" He caught himself and blushed.
"You'll find out, sir. Thanks again." He began weaving his way across the
floor toward the study.
Four, sir; three, sir; two, sir; one!
Reich returned to his hostess.
"Naughty lover," she said. "Who've you been feeding? I'll tear her eyes out."
"The Chervil boy," Reich answered. "He asked me where you keep your pictures."
"Ben! You didn't tell him!"
"Sure did," Reich grinned. "He's on his way to get one now. Then he'll take
off. You know I'm jealous."
She leaped from the couch and sailed toward the study.
"Bam," said Reich.
By eleven o'clock, the ritual of dining had aroused the company to a point
of intensity that required solitude and darkness for release. Maria Beaumont
had never failed her guests, and Reich hoped she would not fail tonight. She
had to play the Sardine game. He knew it when Tate returned from the study
with concise directions for locating the hidden D'Courtney.
"I don't know how you got away with it," Tate whispered. "You're
broadcasting bloodlust on every wavelength of the TP band. He's here. Alone.
No servants. Only two bodyguards provided by Maria. @kins was right. He's
dangerously sick..."
"To hell with that. I'll cure him. Where is he?"
"Go through the west arch. Turn right. Up stairs. Through overpass. Turn
right. Picture Gallery. Door between paintings of the Rape of Lucrece and the
Rape of the Sabine Women..."
"Sounds typical."
"Open the door. Up a flight of steps to an anteroom. Two guards in the
anteroom. D'Courtney's inside. It's the old wedding suite her grandfather
built."
"By God! I'll use that suite again. I'll marry him to murder. And I'll get
away with it, little Gus. Don't think I won't."
The Gilt Corpse began to clamor for attention. Flushed and shining with
perspiration, standing in the glare of a pink light on the dais between the
two fountains, Maria clapped her hands for silence. Her moist palms beat
together, and the echoes roared in Reich's ears: Death. Death. Death.
"Darlings! Darlings! Darlings!" she cried. "We're going to have so much fun
tonight. We're going to provide our own entertainment." A subdued groan went
up from the guests and a drunken voice shouted: "I'm just one of the
tourists."
Through the laughter, Maria said: "Naughty lovers, don't be disappointed.
We're going to play a wonderful old game; and we're going to play it in the
dark."
The company cheered up as the overhead lights began to dim and disappear.
The dais still blazed, and in the light, Maria produced a tattered volume.
Reich's gift.
Tension...
Maria turned the pages slowly, blinking at the unaccustomed print.
Apprehension...
"It's a game," Maria cried, "called `Sardine.' Isn't that too adorable?"
She took the bait. She's on the hook. In three minutes I'll be invisible.
Reich felt his pockets. The gun. The Rhodopsin. Tension, apprehension, and
dissension have begun.
"One player," Maria read, "is selected to be It. That's going to be me. All
the lights are extinguished and the It hides anywhere in the house." As Maria
struggled through the directions, the great hall was reduced to pitch darkness
with the exception of the single pink beam on the stage.
"Successively each player finding the Sardine joins them until all are hidden
in one place, and the last player, who is the loser, is left to wander alone
in the dark." Maria closed the book. "And darlings, we're all going to feel
sorry for the loser because we're going to play this funny old game in a
darling new way."
As the last light on the dais melted away, Maria stripped off her gown and
displayed the astonishing nude body that was a miracle of pneumatic surgery.
"We're going to play Sardine like this!" she cried. The last light biinked
out. There was a roar of exultant laughter and applause, followed by a
multiple whisper of cloth drawn across skin. Occasionally there came the sound
of a rip, then muttered exclamations and more laughter.
Reich was invisible at last. He had half an hour to slip up into the house,
find and kill D'Courtney, and then return to the game. Tate was committed to
pinning the peeper secretaries out of the line of his attack. It was safe. It
was foolproof except for the Chervil boy. He had to take that chance.
He crossed the main hall and jostled into bodies at the west arch. He went
through the arch into the music room and turned right, groping for the stairs.
At the foot of the stairs he was forced to climb over a barrier of bodies with
octopus arms that tried to pull him down. He ascended the stairs, seventeen
eternal steps, and felt his way through a close tunnel overpass papered with
velour. Suddenly he was seized and a woman crushed herself against him.
"Hello, Sardine," she whispered in his ear. Then her skin became aware of his
clothes. "Owww!" she exclaimed, and felt the hard outlines of the gun in his
breast pocket. "What's that?" He slapped her hand away. "Clever-up, Sardine,"
she giggled. "Get out of the can."
He divested himself of her and bruised his nose against the dead-end of the
overpass. He turned right, opened a door and found himself in a vaulted
gallery over fifty feet long. The lights were extinguished here too, but the
luminescent paintings, glowing under ultra-violet spotlights, filled the
gallery with a virulent glow. It was empty.
Between a livid Lucrece and a horde of Sabine Women was a flush door of
polished bronze. Reich stopped before it, removed the tiny Rhodopsin Ionizer
from bis back pocket and attempted to poise the copper cube between his
thumbnail and forefinger. His hands were trembling violently. Rage and hatred
boiled inside him, and his death-lust shot image after image of an agonized
D'Courtney through his mind's eye.
"Christ!" he cried. "He'd do it to me. He's tearing at my throat. I'm fighting
for survival." He made his orisons in fanatical multiples of three and nine.
"Stand by me, dear Christ! Today, tomorrow, and yesterday. Stand by me! Stand
by me! Stand by me!"
His fingers steadied. He poised the Rhodospin cap, then thrust open the bronze
door, revealing nine steps mounting to an anteroom. Reich snapped his
thumb-nail against the copper cube as though he were trying to flip a penny to
the moon. As the Rhodopsin cap flew up into the anteroom, Reich averted his
eyes.
There was a cold purplish flash. Reich leaped up the stairs like a tiger. The
two Beaumont House guards were seated on the bench where he had caught them.
Their faces were sagging, their vision destroyed, their time sense abolished.
If anyone entered and found the guards before he was finished, he was on the
road to Demolition. If the guards revived before he was finished, he was on
the road to Demolition. No matter what happened, it was a final gamble with
Demolition. Leaving the last of his sanity behind him, Reich pushed open a
jewelled door and entered the wedding suite.




5



Reich found himself in a spherical room designed as the heart of a giant
orchid. The walls were curling orchid petals, the floor was a golden calyx;
the chairs, tables and couches were orchid and gold. But the room was old. The
petals were faded and peeling; the golden tile floor was ancient and the
tesselations were splitting. There was an old man lying on the couch, musty
and wilted, like a dried weed. It was D'Courtney, stretched out like a corpse.
Reich slammed the door in rage. "You're not dead already, you bastard," he
exploded. "You can't be dead."
The faded man started up, stared, then arose painfully from the couch, his
face breaking into a smile.
"Still alive," Reich cried exultantly.
D'Courtney stepped toward Reich, smiling, his arms outstretched as though
welcoming a prodigal son.
Alarmed again, Reich growled: "Are you deaf?"
The old man shook his head.
"You speak English," Reich shouted. "You can hear me. You can't understand
me. I'm Reich. Ben Reich of Monarch."
D'Courtney nodded, still smiling. His mouth worked soundlessly. His eyes
glistened with sudden tears.
"What the hell is the matter with you? I'm Ben Reich! Ben Reich! Do you
know me? Answer me."
D'Courtney shook his head and tapped his throat. His mouth worked again. Rusty
sounds came; then words as faint as dust: "Ben... Dear Ben... Waited so long.
Now... Can't talk. My throat... Can't talk." Again he attempted to embrace
Reich.
"Arrgh! Keep off, you crazy idiot." Bristling, Reich stepped around D'Courtney
like an animal, his hackles raised, the murder boiling in his blood.
D'Courtney's mouth formed the words: "Dear Ben..."
"You know why I'm here. What are you trying to do? Make love to me?" Reich
laughed. "You crafty old pimp. Am I supposed to turn soft for your chewing?"
His hand lashed out. The old man reeled back from the slap and fell into an
orchid chair that looked like a wound.
"Listen to me---" Reich followed D'Courtney and stood over him. He began to
shout incoherently. "This payoff's been on the fire for years. And you want to
rob me with a Judas kiss. Does murder turn the other cheek? If it does,
embrace me, brother killer. Kiss death! Teach death love. Teach Godliness and
shame and blood and---No. Wait. I---" He stopped short and shook his head like
a bull trying to cast off a halter of delirum.
"Ben," D'Courtney whispered in horror. "Listen, Ben..."
"You've been at my throat for ten years. There was room enough for both of
us. Monarch and D'Courtney. All the room in time and space, but you wanted my
blood, eh? My heart. My guts in your lousy hands. The Man With No Face!"
D'Courtney shook his head in bewilderment. "No, Ben. No..."
"Don't call me Ben. I'm no friend of yours. Last week I gave you one more
chance to wash in decency. Me. Ben Reich. I asked for armistice. Begged for
peace. Merger. I begged like a screaming woman. My father would spit on me if
he were alive. Every fighting Reich would blacken my face with contempt. But I
asked for peace, didn't I? Eh? Didn't I?" Reich prodded D'Courtney savagely.
"Answer me."
D'Courtney's face was blanched and staring. Finally he whispered: "Yes. You
asked... I accepted."
"You what?"
"Accepted. Waiting for years. Accepted."
"Accepted!"
D'Courtney nodded. His lips formed the letters: "WWHG."
"What? WWHG? Acceptance?"
The old man nodded again.
Reich shrieked with laughter. "You clumsy old liar. That's refusal. Denial.
Rejection. War."
"No, Ben. No..."
Reich reached down and yanked D'Courtney to his feet. The old man was frail
and light, but his weight burned Reich's arm, and the touch of the old skin
burned Reich's fingers.
"So it's to be war, is it? Death?"
D'Courtney shook his head and tried to make signs.
"No merger. No peace. Death. That's the choice, eh?"
"Ben... No."
"Will you surrender?"
"Yes," D'Courtney whispered. "Yes, Ben. Yes."
"Liar. Clumsy old liar." Reich laughed. "But you're dangerous. I can see it.
Protective mimicry. That's your trick. You imitate the idiots and trap us at
your leisure. But not me. Never."
"I'm not... your enemy, Ben."
"No," Reich spat. "You're not because you're dead. You've been dead ever since
I came into this orchid coffin. Man With No Face! Can you hear me screaming
for the last time? You're finished forever!"
Reich tore the gun out of his breast pocket. He touched the stud and it opened
like a red steel flower. A faint groan escaped from D'Courtney when he saw the
weapon. He backed away in horror. Reich caught him and held him fast.
D'Courtney twisted in Reich's grasp, his face pleading his eyes glazed and
rheumy. Reich transferred his grasp to the back of D'Courtney's thin neck and
wrenched the head toward him. He had to fire through the open mouth for the
trick to work.
At that instant, one of the orchid petals swung open, and a half-dressed girl
burst into the room. In a blaze of surprise, Reich saw the corridor behind
her, a bedroom door standing open at the far end; the girl, nude under a frost
silk gown hastily thrown on, yellow hair flying, dark eyes wide in alarm... A
lightning flash of wild beauty.
"Father!" she screamed. "For God's sake! Father!"
She ran toward D'Courtney. Reich swung quickly between them, never relaxing
his hold on the old man. The girl stopped short, backed away, then darted to
the left around Reich screaming. Reich pivoted and cut viciously at her with
the stiletto. She eluded him but was driven back on the couch. Reich thrust
the point of the stiletto between the old man's teeth and forced his jaws
open.
"No!" she cried. "No! For the love of Christ! Father!"
She stumbled around the couch and ran toward her father again. Reich thrust
the gun muzzle into D'Courtney's mouth and pulled the trigger. There was a
muffled explosion and a gout of blood spurted from the back of D'Courtney's
head. Reich let the body drop and leaped for the girl. He caught her while she
fought and screamed.
Reich and the girl were screaming together. Reich shook with galvanic spasms
that forced him to release the girl. The girl fell forward to her knees and
crawled to the body. She moaned in pain as she snatched the gun from the mouth
where it still hung. Then she crouched over the twitching body, silent, fixed,
staring into the waxen face.
Reich gasped for breath and beat his knuckles together painfully. When the
roaring in his ears subsided, he propelled himself toward the girl, trying to
arrange his thoughts and make split second alterations in his plans. He had
never counted on a witness. No one mentioned a daughter. God damn Tate! He
would have to kill the girl. He---
She turned again and shot a terror-stricken glance over her shoulder. Again
that lightning flash of yellow hair, dark eyes, dark brows, wild beauty. She
leaped to her feet, darted out of his sodden grasp, ran to the jewelled door,
flung it open and ran into the anteroom. As the door slowly closed, Reich had
a glimpse of the guards still slumped on the bench and the girl running
silently down the stairs with the gun in her hands... with Demolition in her
hands.
Reich started. The clogged blood began pounding through his veins again. He
reached the door in three strides, ran through and tore down the steps to the
picture gallery. It was empty but the door to the overpass was just closing.
And still no sound from her. Still no alarm. How long before she started
screaming the house down?
He raced down the gallery and entered the overpass. It was still pitch
dark. He blundered through, reached the head of the stairs that led down to
the music room and paused again. Still no sound. No alarm.
He went down the steps. The dark silence was terrifying. Why didn't she
scream? Where was she? Reich crossed toward the west arch and knew he was at
the edge of the main hall by the quiet splash of the fountains. Where was the
girl? In all that black silence, where was she? And the gun! Christ! The
tricked gun!
A hand touched his arm. Reich jerked in alarm. Tate whispered: "I've been
standing by. It took you exactly---"
"You son of a bitch!" Reich burst out. "There was a daughter. Why didn't
you---"
"Be quiet," Tate snapped. "Let me peep it." After fifteen seconds of burning
silence, he began to tremble. In a terrified voice he whined: "My God. Oh, my
God..."
His terror was the catalyst. Reich's control returned. He began thinking
again. "Shut up," he growled. "It isn't Demolition yet."
"You'll have to kill her too, Reich. You'll---"
"Shut up. Find her, first. Cover the house. You got her pattern from me.
Locate her. I'll be waiting at the fountain. Jet!"
He flung Tate from him and staggered to the fountain. At the jasper rim he
bent and bathed his burning face. It was burgundy. Reich wiped his face and
ignored the muffled sounds that came from the other side of the basin.
Evidently some other person or persons unknown were bathing in wine.
He considered swiftly. The girl must be located and killed. If she still had
the gun when Tate found her, the gun would be used. If she didn't? What?
Strangle her? No... The fountain. She was naked under that silk gown. It could
be stripped off. She could be found drowned in the fountain... just another
guest who had bathed in the wine too long. But it had to be soon... soon...
soon... Before this damned Sardine game was ended. Where was Tate? Where was
the girl?
Tate came blundering up through the darkness, his breath wheezing.
"Well?"
"She's gone."
"You weren't gone long enough to find a louse. If this is a double-cross---"
"Who could I cross? I'm on the same road you are. I tell you her pattern's
nowhere in the house. She's gone."
"Anyone notice her leave?"
"No."
"Christ! Out of the house!"
"We'd better leave too."
"Yes, but we can't run. Once we get out of here, we'll have the rest of the
night to find her, but we've got to leave as though nothing's happened.
Where's The Guilt Corpse?"
"In the projection room."
"Watching a show?"
"No. Still playing Sardine. They're packed in there like fish in a can.
We're almost the last out here in the house."
"Wandering alone in the dark, eh? Come on."
He gripped Tate's shaking elbow and marched him toward the projection
room. As he walked he called plaintively: "Hey... Where is everybody? Maria!
Ma-ri-aaa! Where's everybody?"
Tate emitted a hysterical sob. Reich shook him roughly. "Play up! We'll be
out of here in five minutes. Then you can start worrying."..
"But if we're trapped in here, we won't be able to get the girl.We'll--- "..
"We won't be trapped. ABC, Gus. Audacious, brave, and confident." Reich pushed
open the door of the projection room. There was darkness in here, too, but the
heat of many bodies. "Hey," he called. "Where is everybody? I'm all alone."
No answer.
"Maria. I'm all alone in the dark."
A muffled sputter, then a burst of laughter.
"Darling, darling, darling!" Maria called. "You've missed all the fun, poor
dear." '
"Where are you, Maria? I've come to say good night."
"Oh, you can't be leaving..."
"Sorry, dear. It's late. I've got to swindle a friend tomorrow. Where are you
Maria?"
"Come up on the stage, darling."
Reich walked down the aisle, felt for the steps and mounted the stage. He felt
the cool perimeter of the projection globe behind him. A voice called: "All
right. Now we've got him. Lights!"
White light flooded the globe and blinded Reich. The guests seated in the
chairs around the stage started to whoop with laughter, then howled in
disappointment.
"Oh Ben, you cheat," Maria screeched. "You're still dressed. That isn't fair.
We've been catching everybody divinely flagrante."
"Some other time, Maria dear." Reich extended his hand before him and began
the graceful bow of farewell. "Respectfully, Madame. I give you my thanks
for---" He broke off in amazement. On the gloaming white lace of his cuff an
angry red spot appeared.
In stunned silence, Reich saw a second, then a third red splotch appear on the
lace. He snatched his hand back and a red drop spattered on the stage before
him, to be followed by a slow, inexorable stream of gleaming crimson
droplets.
"That's blood!" Maria screamed. "That's blood! There's someone upstairs
bleeding. For God's sake, Ben... You can't leave me now. Lights! Lights!
Lights!"




6



At 12:30 A.M., the Emergency Patrol arrived at Beaumont House in response to
precinct notification: "GZ. Beaumont. YLP-R" which, translated, meant: "An Act
or Omission, forbidden by law has been reported at Beaumont House, 9 Park
South."
At 12:40, the Park precinct Captain arrived in response to Patrol report:
"Criminal Act possible Felony-AAA."
At 1:00 A.M„ Lincoln Powell arrived at Beaumont House in response to a frantic
call from a deputy inspector: "I tell you, Powell, it's Felony Triple-A. I'll
swear it is. The wind's been knocked out of me. I don't know whether to be
grateful or scared; but I know none of us is equipped to handle it."
"What can't you handle?"
"Look here, Powell. Murder's abnormal. Only a distorted TP pattern can produce
death by violence. Right?"
"Yes."
"Which is why there hasn't been a successful Triple-A in over seventy years. A
man can't walk around with a distorted pattern, maturing murder, and go
unnoticed these days. He'd have as much chance of going unnoticed as a man
with three heads. Yo

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