Dayworld - Dayworld Part 5

Caird put his weapon in his shoulderbag, said, "Until tomorrow, Tony," and hurried out to the car. The driver, delighted at being permitted to speed, took the car at its top velocity of forty miles an hour. Horn had arranged that the signal lights would be green for them all the way to the house on Bleecker Street. Caird did not know what excuse she might have to give for this special treatment, but he was sure that she would think of something reasonable.

Five blocks from his house, Caird told the driver to turn off the siren. If Castor should be in the house, he should not be frightened away. On the other hand, it might be better if he were. He might be prevented from doing whatever he might have in mind-if he was there.

At Caird's order, the driver slowed the car down during the final block and stopped it two buildings from Caird's house.

It was 11:22 P.M.

Caird got out of the car and said, "You can go now. There's an emergency stoner shelter at 200 Bleecker. You have eight minutes, plenty of time, to get there."

"Yes, sir, I know," the driver said. "Good night, sir."

Caird said good night and watched him drive off. He walked toward his house. The two guards were gone, of course. There were no lights in the house. This might mean that Ozma had decided that he was staying in an emergency shelter or in an extra stoner in a precinct station. She could already be in her cylinder. Or.. . someone else had turned the lights off and was waiting for him.

That someone could only be Castor. He would know that the front room light would come on as soon as Caird's ID tip entered the front door slot. Castor might have turned the light off with the manual switch, but then he would know that Caird would suspect that something was wrong.

Instead of going onto the front porch, Caird walked along one side of the house, the weapon in one hand, a flashlight in the other, looking for signs of breaking and entering. He saw nothing suspicious, and the back door was locked. He went to the other side and moved slowly, looking for signs of entry there. Nothing. As he walked back to the rear, the lights in the house began flashing, and he could hear, faintly, the siren moaning inside it.

It was now 11:30.

All over the city, all over this time zone, in every inhabited building, lights were flashing and sirens were moaning. And so were the street lights and sirens.

The seniors and the juniors now had less than five minutes to enter their stoners before power was applied to them. If they had not gone into them by now, and most had, because of lifelong conditioning, they should hurry, hurry. Never mind if thcy had to go to the toilet. Never mind if some were in the midst of having a baby. Never mind what. Get into the stoner.

Those cylinders with closed doors would automatically get the power. Those with open doors would not. From 11:30 to 11:35 P.M. was a grace period. A citizen could still get into one and close the door and be stoned sixty seconds later. After that, no power until next Tuesday at fifteen minutes after midnight, and that was destoning power, which had a field quite different from the stoning power.

The lights and the sirens lasted for sixty seconds and would be the last warning of three. At 11:00, when Caird had been traveling south on the Manhattan streets, the lights had blinked and the sirens had whooped. Fifteen minutes later, the second citywide warning had occurred.

Before the lights in the house had darkened again, Caird was at the back door and had inserted the ID tip in the slot. He had the door open before the warning was over. If Castor was inside, he would not be able to distinguish the entry warning light from the others. But, as soon as the warning lights quit, he would see the flashing orange light above the door in the front room. And he would know that someone was entering the back door. Unless Caird got in in time to close the back door.

He did so, and the hall and front room lights went out. The kitchen light stayed on, though it no longer blinked. He walked down the hall with his weapon set at maximum charge. The hall lit up as he left the kitchen, the light of which went dark. Castor, if he were here, would see the light and know that someone had entered.

The light should also be on in whichever room Castor was. Castor, however, would be intelligent enough to have overridden the automatic light with the manual switch. But he must also know that if Caird went into a room and the light did not go on, then Caird would know that it had. been manually turned off.

Caird told himself that he should not get spooked and shoot at anything that moved. It was possible that Ozma was still up. On the other hand, Caird did not want to give Castor a break by hesitating too long.

He stood listening. The house was silent, except for his subjective impression that it was breathing and also straining to hear something. Weapon held ready, finger on the b.u.t.ton, he resumed walking. He pa.s.sed the sliding closet doors on his left and a bathroom door and children's bedroom on his right. All the doors were shut. Since Castor could be behind any of them, Caird kept looking back.

He was also sharply aware that Castor could approach him from the rear through the kitchen. The dining room door opened onto the kitchen. Castor could come from the dining room and circle behind him.

The big front room lit up. He looked up the dark stairs to his right at the end of the hall. Then he put his hand over the bottom steps. The stairwell sprang into illumination. No one was there, and no shadowy face was looking from around the corner at the top of the steps. There were no signs of forced entry, and it was highly unlikely that Castor could have used some electronic means to get in. On the other hand, how had he gotten out of the Tamasuki inst.i.tute?

He looked behind every piece of furniture in the front and dining rooms. Then he went through the kitchen again and down the long hall. He walked up the steps and went into the bathroom and two bedrooms there and looked into every closet.

It was midnight when he entered the bas.e.m.e.nt. Fifteen minutes to go. The game room and the utility room and the PPC, the personal possessions closet, were empty of human though not of insect life. A big daddy-longlegs scuttled toward a refuge under the pool table. He would have to leave a recording for the cleaning squad when he had time for less important matters. No. The squad was not responsible for such matters. He would have to attend to a possible web under the table himself come next Tuesday. It was his turn to see to the minor cleaning.

He looked through the porthole of Ozma's cylinder. Her eyes looked lifelessly into his. Most people closed their eyes before power came on. Ozma had the crazy idea that her unconscious could see what was going on in the room, and she did not want to miss out on a thing.

He was happy with relief though still sweating from fear. Actually, the strain was not over yet, but that which he felt now was minor. It would become major if he did not get going.

He went to the cylinder which bore a plaque with his name and ID data. He put his shoulderbag on the floor, opened it, and took from a compartment a small flesh-colored object attached to a small cylinder. After opening the stoner door, he set the object and cylinder on the stoner floor. He turned a dial at the end of the cylinder. The object unfolded, swelling, and ballooned into an air-inflated and full-sized replica of himself.

He pinched the big right toe of the replica, pulled the small compressed-air cylinder from the valve in the toe, and screwed a cap onto the valve. He dropped the cylinder into a compartment of his shoulderbag. His neck-chain with the attached ID star came off his neck and was put on the dummy's. Though they weighed less than an ounce, they were heavy enough to topple the dummy forward. However, steel b.a.l.l.s glued inside the feet of the replica compensated for the weight. The replica would not lean until its face was pressing against the window.

He took the Wednesday ID from the bag and dropped the neck-chain over his head and onto his neck. He picked up the gun, which he had placed on the floor, and stuck it between the waistband and his body. He placed the bag on the stoner floor and closed the door. Inside the great cylinder was what had so far always pa.s.sed as the relativel~i molecularly motionless body of Jefferson Cervantes Caird.

Soon enough, it would be stoned.

Blowing a kiss to Ozma as he left, he ran upstairs, opened the front door, closed it, sprang over the railing at the end of the front porch, and hastened under the trees to the east fence. Leaped over the white picket fence with a hand on it. Ran across the yard and under the trees. Up the front steps of the big building with many white columns that looked so much like Scarlett O'Hara's mansion. Stopped at the front door to insert one tip of the ID star into the hole. Saw the light come on in the apartment lobby. Pushed in on the door and let it swing shut. Sped across the lobby to the wide staircase and up it to the second floor. Ran down the thickly carpeted corridor to Number 2E. Inserted the star tip again and entered the apartment living room. Raced down a narrow hail to the stoner room and darted to the left through a doorway. Fourteen cylinders here, much more closely s.p.a.ced than in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the house he had just left.

Ten minutes after midnight.

Never had he cut it so close. Never again would he have to, he hoped.

Wednesday's wife stared unseeingly at him through her window. He turned away from her to his own cylinder, which faced hers across a narrow aisle. It bore a plaque with the name ROBERT AQUILINE TINGLE. His own face looked at him through the window. Its door should have been locked since there was someone-no, some thing-inside it, and it should be unlocked only from the inside. Caird, however, had arranged that it could be opened.

At the moment, he could do nothing with the air-inflated dummy. He ran from the room to the shower room, removing the gun and taking off the sash and blouse on the way. In the shower room, he punched a b.u.t.ton, and the water began gushing at a preset pressure and temperature. The rest of his clothes came off, and he stepped under the water and began vigorously soaping himself. There was not time to do a thorough cleansing of the makeup; he stepped out while there were still paint streaks on his legs. He rubbed off these with a towel and then threw the towel into the hamper. He would dispose of that later, though the chances that his wife would see it were small. Taking another towel, he began rubbing himself, only to stop with a muttered exclamation. He reached over and punched the b.u.t.ton to stop the shower.

His hair was still too wet, but he did not have time to dry it completely. After putting the second towel on ~op of the first in the hamper, he picked up his Tuesday clothes, balled them, and put them under the towel. When he had the opportunity, he would hide the clothes and towel in his personal possessions closet or destroy them.

Naked except for the neck-chain and ID star and holding the gun, he ran down the hallway and into the stoner room. Eighty seconds to go. He could get into the cylinder and try to find room beside the hard and unsqueezable replica or he could pretend that he was just coming out of the cylinder. The second action seemed more perilous. The microsecond that destoning power went on, his wife would probably open her eyes. She would see that the door was closed. Unless he stood in front of the window of his stoner until she had gone away, she would see that other face in the window. Even if she did not see it, she would wonder why he had gotten out of his cylinder before she did. And he would have a h.e.l.l of a time explaining why he kept standing in front of the cylinder window.

"Choices of equal misfortune," he muttered.

Cursing, he opened the door and sidled in, bent over. Ten seconds to go. His foot hit the stoned shoulderbag on the floor, and he said, "Ouch!" After dropping the gun, he leaned hard against the cold and heavy dummy. It fell away from him, stopping when the side of its head hit the cylinder. He crowded in front of the dummy and straightened up. Anyone looking in would see part of it behind him.

Three seconds to go before destoning power struck. It would have no effect on him since he was not stoned. Maybe he could pull this off.

Perhaps it was the sight of his wife, recalling the one he had just left, that stabbed a panicky thought through the other panics. "Oh, my G.o.d! I forgot to complete the license application! Ozma will kill me!"

Wednesday-World VARIETY, Second Month of the Year D5-W1 (Day-Five, Week-One) Nokomis Moondaughter, a long-legged brunette of medium height, stepped out of the cylinder. She wore a clinging scarlet ankle-length robe slashed with black. Her thinness and sharply angled face made her look like a ballerina, which she was. She stopped just outside the cylinder door and narrowed her eyes.

Caird knew that she was wondering why he was still standing in the cylinder. He gave up his intention to "carve," as he called the process, the persona of Bob Tingle. That would have to come later; no time for it now. Just now, he must keep her from seeing the dummy.

He pushed the door open, bounded through the doorway, and closed the door behind him quickly. Bounding again, he grabbed Nokomis and lifted her in his arms. Whirling, he danced down the hall.

"What are you doing?" she cried. "What's gotten into you?" He set her down in the kitchen and said, "I love you, and I'm so glad to see you! Is that so hard to understand?"

She laughed, then said, "No. Yes. Usually, you slouch out like some rough crotch-scratching beast who's lost his way to the bathroom. You're grumpy until you've had your coffee. Don't you think you should put some clothes on?"

"Yes, you're right. It's too early for the sight of naked me."

He leaned down and kissed her lips. "Shall we have coffee and talk a while? Or should we sleep first?"

She narrowed her dark eyes, and something settled over her face, what he called the suspiration of suspicion. It was like the mist formed on a mirror by a breath. Suspiration of suspicion.

"How could you forget?" she said. "You know I slept for six hours before getting up for stoning. You told me you took a nap for an hour or so while I was sleeping. You woke up just as I did. Or so you said. You never go to sleep right after a nap. Why do you want to sleep now?"

As Bob Tingle, he would have remembered what he had told her. But he was still Jeff Caird, desperate after yesterday's events and jittery with the present urgency. The dummy. He had to deflate it.

He told himself to smooth out the rippling inside himself. Press it down with a quiet and cool mental hand.

"I'm not Tik-Tok," he said. "I don't run on wind-up machinery. Now and then, I use free will. Or call it whim. Or indigestion."

"You certainly didn't act sleepy and tired when you sprang out like a jack-in-the-box."

Before he had married her, he had known that she was a radar set sensitized only to nonroutine phenomena, a TV channel with a wavelength of near-paranoia. She even suspected the weathercaster's motives when rain came instead of the predicted clear skies. Perhaps that was exaggerating somewhat. But not much. As Jeff Caird, he would never have married her, would not even have dated her very long. As Bob Tingle, he had fallen in love with her. Just now, he disliked and resented her because of her suspicions, and he also was wondering why he had ever tied himself to this scrawny woman. No. He, Caird, had not done that. Tingle had.

The near-panic wrapped itself around him again. It was an octopus of ectoplasm seen and felt only by himself. But which self? Not just Caird. Caird would not have thought of such phrases as "suspiration of suspicion" and "octopus of ectoplasm." Tingle was trying to get out, but he wrnild never make it until Caird had a minute to go through the summoning ceremony, the ritual raising the top of Tingle's tomb, immured in his mind and making him master of this mess-he meant "ma.s.s"-known in Wednesday as Tingle. However, Caird would never be completely gone. If he were, Caird-Tingle would be completely ineffective in his role and duties as an immer. Jeff Caird was the primary, the original.

"A jack-in-the-box!" he cried, smiling. "How about a Bobin-the-box? Your box!"

He picked her up and whirled again. "Let's!"

She smiled, but she said, "Let's not. And let me down. You know I have to practice. After that ... I'm not frigid, you know."

He set her down on her feet and said, "No, you're not, but I wonder sometimes about your thermostat. OK. Anything you want, Tippytoes. Your every desire is mine. You make the coffee, and Tingle will go tinkle."

Caird would never have said that either. Perhaps, the evocation evulsion was evitable.

I have to stop that sort of thing, Caird thought. At least, water it down. It's too much. But it's a sign that Tingle lurks on the threshold of Wednesday and might come out even if I neglected the ritual. Now, however, was no time for experimenting. Too dangerous.

"You~went to the toilet just before you were stoned," Nokomis said.

Choi-oi! How did Tingle put up with her?

He was glad that he had not voiced the exclamation. Wednesday did not know it, since its main ethnic flavoring in Manhattan was not Chinese but Amerind and Bengali. Hearing that, she would have pumped her suspicions to the bursting point.

"Yes, and I have to go again," he said.

He turned and walked down to the hall to the bathroom, which was on his right. After closing the door, he sat down on the closed toilet lid. He noted that Tuesday had forgotten to replace the toilet paper; three lone sheets clung to the spool. That however, was not worth leaving a remonstratory recording for yesterday's yahoos.

He closed his eyes and sank into a noiseless and frictionless world. His image of himself as Caird hung solid, bright, and full-sized before him. Watching it with one eye, as it were, he spun the other eye, also imaginary, so that it turned inward. That saw at first only darkness. Then, quickly, many sagging lines, gray in the black, formed. They seemed to stream from the abyss within his body, flying past the eye into the abyss above. He straightened them out until they were so tight that they hummed with tension. He increased the pressure at each end, though he did not know where their ends were, until it seemed that the lines, now glowing brightly and coldly, would snap. He hurled heat at them. The "heat" was comet-shaped energy complexes, each of which struck a line and was absorbed, though not entirely. Some of the heat slid down or up the lines, like drippings from a candle. It was up to them which way they went. Here, in his mind, there was no gravity.

No gravy, either, he thought. Or maybe he was wrong. The drippings did remind him of hot gravy.

The lines of force were used to suppress himself and bring forth Tingle. Who, when summoned from the floor of his mind like the ghost of Samuel evoked by the Witch of Endor, would change from ghost to guest. Today's guest.

He increased the strain on the lines. They snapped and then darted wriggling and shining in the darkness. They went here and there, colliding, then coalescing, until all had touched and melted together and formed one slim, long, and glowing column. It seemed upright, that is, stretching from the darkness below to the darkness above. Now, he rotated it so that it was at right angles to its previous position, and he spun it so fast that it melted from a column into a blurry disc.

The other eyesaw that the image of Caird had lost much of its brightness and had shrunk. No wonder. The heat hurled at the lines had been sucked from Caird. Now, a line, the boundaries of a trap door, formed around the image's feet. Sometimes, the image to be done away with was shot up like a rocket or rolled into a ball and hurled down an alleyway with phantom bowling pins at the far end. Today the image was to be dropped through a floor.

The second eye watched the spinning and bright white disc as its sharp edge cut a block from the darkness and then began cutting away parts of the blackness. A rough figure was left from the hewing away of the darkness, a figure that became gray as it absorbed some of the light from the disc. Which became darker as the figure gained a finer form.

When Tingle was almost perfected, the first eye gave a mental order, and the image of Caird dropped through the trap door. The lines forming the door vanished.

Now, both eyes focused on Tingle, and, as the disc became black and small, having lost its heat and worn its edge to almost nothing, Tingle floated glowing in the blackness.

Presently, the disc disappeared, and the image of Tingle was shot upward so swiftly that its friction formed a long ghostly comet tail.

His eyes turned outward, and he opened his lids. Bob Tingle had landed, though not without a residue of Caird. Ninetyeight percent of him was Wednesday's tenant; two percent, Tuesday's. Enough of Caird was left to remember the dummy still inflated in the stoner. What would he do if Nokomis saw it? He could not give her an explanation that would satisfy her. And he could not tell her the truth. Why had he ever gotten into this mess?

He rose from the seat and started toward the door. He stopped, grimaced, snapped his fingers, and turned back. If Nokomis did not hear the toilet flushing, she would come galloping down the hall to find out why not. She always noticed the breaking of a pattern, the nonhappening of events that should happen unless something was wrong. He pressed the b.u.t.ton, and, as the water roared, he stepped into the hall.

Usually, he was almost all Bob Tingle by now, though Jeff Caird would not have really dropped entirely through the imaginary trap door. Always, Caird was a speck in the eyeball, a tiny itch in the skin of the mind, not noticed by Tingle unless there was a good reason for him to be noticed. As just now, when the dummy had to be deflated. What made him even more present was that Chang Castor was loose in Wednesday-probably----and Tingle could not ignore him.

Tingle looked down the hall. He could not see Nokomis, but she might think of something to fetch from the PP closet.

He called, "I'm going to get dressed! Anything you want from the closet?"

Nokomis said, cheerily, "Nothing, dear! The coffee'll be ready soon!"

Nokomis would now be destoning the lox and bagels for their breakfast. After that, she'd put the bagels in the toaster. He would have to be dressed by then or she would be looking down the hall to see where he was.

He ran to his stoner, opened the door, and bent down. After he had removed the plug from the base of the dummy, he shut the door and ran to the closet marked WEDNESDAY. He said, "Open," and a mechanism, recognizing his voiceprint, released the lock so that he could swing the tall door out. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the nearest robe, slid it over his head, said, "Close," and hurried back down the hall after a glance to a.s.sure himself that Nokomis was not looking after him. He opened the stoner again.

"d.a.m.n!"

The dummy was deflating too slowly.

He pressed down on it, aware of the louder hissing as the air left it. Nokomis, however, had turned on a strip. The voices should drown the hissing.

When the replica was half-collapsed, he stepped into the cylinder and closed the door. He shoved down on the dummy until it was completely deflated, then rolled it up and put it in the little bottle in the shoulderbag. The gun also went into the bag. Though he knew that Thursday's ID star was in the bag, he could not resist checking to make sure. His fingers touched the tips of the star.

He stepped out backward and closed the door. Breathing more heavily than he liked, he walked toward the kitchen. Just before he got to it, he saw Nokomis come around the corner.

"There you are. The bagels are getting cold."

He followed her to the balcony, where a small round table held coffee, orange juice, and the food. He sat down opposite Nokomis. There was just enough light from the* street to make him and his wife seem to be in a gray limbo. The katydids and tree frogs were still singing.

He sipped hot coffee and looked at his Tuesday home. Its windows were bright, but he could see no one in it. Enough of Caird lingered for him to think briefly of Ozma, standing in the cylinder. Ozma, waiting to see him six days from now.

Nokomis, as almost always, looked lovely. Her skin was darker in this dimness than the beautiful copper it showed in sunlight. Her black hair was cut close and spotted with white dye to give it Wednesday's current "skunky" look.

Nokomis had tried to get Tingle to spot his hair and grow a beard, which would be cut to the fashionable square shape. He had refused, though he could not give her, of course, his true reasons for not being in mode.

He thought: the clothes in the hamper. I must not forget to hide them better.

Nokomis, halfway through her second cup of coffee, perked up. She began chattering away about her role in the new ballet, Proteus and Menelaus. It had not opened yet, and its troubles were many.

composer is crazy. She thinks atonal music is something new. She won't listen when you tell her it was dead ten generations ago. Roger Shenachi is constipated, and every time he comes down from a grand jete he farts something awful. I told Fred . .

"Fred?"

"Haven't you been listening? Pay attention. I just hate talking to myself, you know that. Fred Pandi is the big muckamuck; she wrote the story, composed the music, and did the ch.o.r.eography. I told her she should rewrite the whole thing around Roger, call it Gas or something like that, and while she was at it, she should throw out the music and write something that could at least be danced to . .

"I'm sure you're artist enough to overcome all that," Tingle said. "Anyway, since when does a ballerina, even one of your stature, have any say in-"

"Thank you, but you don't understand. I have a say in it, a big one, because I'm a committee member, as you know very well. At least, I'm supposed to be one, but the composer and the orchestra director are lovers, and they gang up on the rest of us."