The demolished man (6 page)

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.