“Light? Why should that stop them?” He still sounded scared.
“Shame, Michael, unadulterated shame. The things they believe and the things they do are almost mutually exclusive, for one thing; and they seem to be compulsive rationalizers, for another; which leads me to think they have an overdeveloped sense of shame.”
“Hey!” a bit less fear, “maybe we can work on their sense of shame!!”
“Not a chance. A sense of shame’s not much use to anyone. They won’t mind dosing our water, but they won’t want to do it while we’re watching, and that’s all the benefit we can expect from their sense of shame. However…”
One of the troopers screamed like a sudden banshee. Mike nearly fainted. I ran back to see what was happening.
Nothing was happening.
“I don’t know what got into me,” Karen sobbed. “I just, you know, kept getting scareder and scareder, until I just had to let it out or do something horrible. I don’t know!” She poured tears on Andrew’s shoulder.
This was Ktch’s waiting-and-apprehension game at work. I could feel it myself, though I wasn’t paying much attention to it. But something had to be done. A mere glance at our formerly brave little band was enough to tell me that. They were all unnaturally pale, some had developed tics, more had taken to looking back over their shoulders nervously, as though some hellish Thing were lurking there, and none of them looked at all happy. Even Pat’s grin, impossible to erase, had a rather hollow look to it.
“Listen to me, you guys,” I ordered firmly and loudly. “This is just one of the lobster gang’s tricks, this fear-and-waiting bit. That’s all it is, just a trick. It’s not real. Honestly it’s not.”
They looked half hopeful and a bit less credulous, which was an improvement, but not enough.
“Listen. We don’t have to put up with this. We can make them stop it. Yes we can. I did it. I did it last night, and I did it again this morning, when they had me tied up in their loft. It’s easy.”
I moved back to the harpsichord, gesturing to the rest of the band to follow.
“All we have to do is sing at them. Really. That’s all there is to it. We’ll give ’em ‘Love Sold in Doses,’ right? That’s the song I used, and it worked like a charm. Honestly! I think they’re a little afraid of it. Everybody sing, you hear? If you don’t know the words, hum something. Ready? Let’s go!”
And Sativa and The Tripouts and the MacDougal Street Commandos swung into “Love Sold in Doses.” It was pretty ragged at first, but it firmed up quickly, and by the end of the second verse we were doing right well by it. We were feeling better, too — all of us. You could tell it from the singing.
And then, suddenly, like a guitar string snapping, the waiting-and-apprehension business stopped. We all lit up like happy bulbs.
“Keep on singing!” I yelled. “Sing it again. Don’t stop until I do. And sing louder! Let the lobster gang hear it like it is. Louder!”
Oh my, but they were loud! Gary the cacophonous Frog was the loudest of the lot, of course, and flat to boot, but this was no time for technical quibbles. I smiled encouragement at him and — mirabile! — he sang even louder.
Halfway through the second time, the sky began to lighten. When we started on the third time, it was perfectly clear, with stars all over and a big old full moon brighter than a streetlight, and we just went on singing.
At the end of the fifth performance, Laszlo Scott shuffled onto the beach waving a piece of white cloth. We gave them a sixth performance for luck, then quit. We were all a little hoarse, and some of us weren’t as fond of “Love Sold in Doses” as we had been, but we’d won our first skirmish with the lobster gang and we all felt approximately wonderful.
“Head for shore, Mike,” I yelled. “Loathsome Laszlo wants to talk.”
24
HE DIDN’T have a lot to say, and he didn’t say it very well, but that’s Laszlo. We weren’t expecting more.
We might as well forget the music gambit, he told us. All the lobsters were wearing protective suits now. I accepted this, but only because I could see lurking in the trees behind Laszlo two lobsters dressed in silvery blankets. Even so, I wasn’t all that sure we couldn’t make them feel at least a bit uncomfortable. We had a lot of energy going for us.
Ktch sent me his regards, said Laszlo, and promised that if my friends and I would agree to go home right now, he’d personally guarantee that we’d get away from the reservoir unharmed.
I gave Laszlo four detailed and imaginative things he and Ktch could do with that safe-conduct guarantee. Then I demanded that Ktch come out like a man or whatever and speak to me man to thing. In fact, I made quite a scene about it, a virtuoso tantrum, at the end of which Laszlo was huddled on the sand, sniveling, and the MacDougal Street Commandos were cheering.
No soap. Ktch stayed safely out of sight. Too busy, Laszlo claimed. Chicken, I replied.
Then Laszlo haltingly expressed Ktch’s regret that our ill-advised stubbornness (those words gave Laszlo fits) forced him to take strong measures. If we still refused to leave, said Laszlo, Ktch couldn’t even guarantee our lives.
Since we hadn’t expected any such guarantee, I replied, not having it wouldn’t seriously inconvenience us.
(I didn’t feel half as cocksure as I sounded. The triple dinosaur was proof that Ktch could throw some pretty strong magic at us. But I knew that if we didn’t win this fight, being alive afterward wasn’t going to be a particularly advantageous condition. And there was always a possibility, albeit a misty one, that we might actually win.)
Because he so respected me, Laszlo choked out, Ktch was going to give us one last chance. He was going to show us what we’d be up against if we didn’t go quietly home right now like good little cats and chicks.
Then we all screamed. Something was standing behind Laszlo. It was only a shadow, a big opaque black shadow, featureless and formless; but just looking at it turned my stomach, and when it moved a prophecy of pain crawled through my nervous system, a memory of agony to come. It wasn’t just a shadow, it was Evil, a whole history of Evil, contradicting everything I loved in waves of future torment. That was bad. Oh, bad.
And then the thing was gone.
That was only one of the weapons Ktch could use against us, Laszlo chortled, and not the worst one, either. Surely we could see we had no chance. Why did we persist in this foolishness?
By then I wasn’t too sure myself.
Perhaps, Ktch said through Laszlo, we were being so headstrong because we hadn’t had time to think the problem out. Or perhaps the group didn’t agree with me as unanimously as I thought. Perhaps I wasn’t as appropriate a spokesman for the group as they had formerly believed. Perhaps the group would like some time to discuss the situation, maybe even take a vote.
Therefore (another hard word for Laszlo) Ktch was giving us twenty minutes’ grace before he loosed his arsenal against us. He instructed us to take the bus out a hundred feet from the shore and talk it over. He also apologized for putting guards around us, but surely we could understand his position? And he wished us wisdom in our deliberations. (Poor tongue-tied mindless Laszlo.) If we decided to go home, we had only to blink our lights and he’d have us escorted to the nearest road.
That ended our parley. Laszlo shut up, turned, and shuffled back into the willow thicket. Mike backed the bus off a hundred feet, as ordered, keeping the beach well lit all the while. Our guards were pretty bad — huge, luminous green swimming things with red eyes, lots of teeth, and tentacles — but they didn’t even disturb us; not after the black shadow.
We were all thoughtful and quiet. When we spoke we didn’t whisper, but our voices were low. No one even mentioned going home but Gary the customary Frog, and even he pretended he was joking.
I found myself standing beside Sean, and felt a duty to apologize.
“This isn’t what I expected last Saturday,” I said softly. “No, it’s not at all the way I expected things to go. Now I feel I should’ve sent
you back to Fort Worth, or not taken you in, or something. I’m sorry I got you into this mess, Sean.” We shook hands.
“Hell, man, you didn’t get me into this. I done that myself. Me an’ them damn butterflies. Shucks…”
“Butterflies!” I yelled, scaring everyone on board. “Butterflies! Yahoo!”
“Hey, man, cool it!” Sean thought I’d flipped, and, I had, too, but not that way.
“C’mon!” I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him toward the harpsichord. “Everybody!” I was shouting. “C’mere! On the double!”
Everybody, looking mighty puzzled came running.
Butterflies indeed! And there under the harpsichord, where I’d left it hours ago, there was my briefcase. I pulled it out, set it on top of the harpsichord where everyone could see, and opened it.
And there they were, hundreds of thousands of pretty blue Reality Pills. We had our weapon!
Maybe.
Time was our only problem. We had something less than twenty minutes, and I had no idea how long it took the pills to get to work. Except for that one little hangup, we were saved.
Well, we had a chance.
“Everybody take at least five,” I ordered, hoping superstitiously that the more we took, the faster they’d work. Considering what Ktch and company were planning to dump into the reservoir — ten billion doses — I wasn’t seriously worried about overdoses, and it didn’t really matter anyhow.
“Take at least five,” I repeated. “The more the better.” I grabbed a handful of the pills, stuffed my mouth with them and started swallowing. The U.S. Cavalry was on the way!
25
FOR A WHILE we were too busy swallowing pills to talk. Adam’s apples twitched, solemn faces grimaced, pills went slowly down, time passed. I learned that pill swallowing loses its charm after the twenty-fifth pill. You get to feeling like a sack of BB’s — nothing like my favorite way to feel.
When all the pills were dealt with, I started talking. I told my loyal troops how to control the hallucinations they were going to have, time and lobsters willing.
“Concentrate on Fighting,” I told them. “Remember, whatever you imagine will be real, no matter how kooky it may be. Imagine weapons: death rays, bombs, bigger and better killing machines. Think death!”
I had to stop. I was embarrassing myself. What kind of talk was this for a pacifist? Forget it. I went on.
“I don’t know what they’re gonna throw at us, but in general here’s what to do:
“Kill anything that moves in your direction. Don’t stop to ask questions. It won’t be friendly.
“Kill lobsters. That’s probably the only way to persuade them to give up.
“Above all, don’t let anybody pour Anything into the water. The only reason we’re here is to keep that from happening. If they get that stuff into the water, we’ve had it, no matter how the fighting goes.
“If you can avoid it, don’t get killed.
“Also, if you can avoid it, please do not kill Laszlo. I have plans for that boy.”
I couldn’t think of anything more to say, so I sat down. Everyone looked solemn. Time passed.
Just plain waiting is a drag. Waiting for a pill to take effect is worse, and waiting for a battle to begin has nothing at all to recommend it. Put them all together, it’s depressing. We sat quietly. Time passed.
Michael said, “Ten minutes.” Everybody twitched.
“Ten minutes since or ten minutes till?” I wondered.
“Till.”
“Groovy. Is anybody getting high yet? Even a little bit?”
Little Micky raised his hand. “I don’ know, man,” shrug, “but, like…”
“Groovy.”
We sat quietly. Time passed.
I was trying to think up something to say before the fireworks, something terse and memorable that would look good in a history book, but I couldn’t seem to find the words. The best I could come up with was, “54-40 or fight!” and, “Don’t give up the glub!” neither of which fit somehow, so I gave it up.
Time passed.
Little Micky was smiling ecstatically. That was encouraging. I too, was beginning to feel the first faint stirrings of euphoria. Groovy. And how about the rest of the gang?
Michael was expressing solemn dignity, which looked in his case like a banker breaking wind. Gary the ultimate Frog looked Garyish — or Froggy, if you like. Sean’s left eyebrow was raised a full inch higher than his right one — a possibly hopeful sign, if you weren’t too hard to please. The others just looked serious.
“Five minutes,” Michael chimed.
Little Micky giggled. Sometimes being short and scrawny helps.
“Micky?” said I.
He giggled again.
“You may have to do a solo set at first. No one else is off yet.”
“That’s coo, baby.” Further giggles.
“Can you do it? Seriously.”
“I said it’s cool, baby.” Additional and prolonged giggling. I crossed my fingers.
Actually, I was starting to feel decidedly better. The hopelessness of our situation was beginning to amuse me. The fact that we fourteen ill-sorted nuts were sitting here waiting to get high enough to save the world was so outrageously absurd I couldn’t help giggling a bit myself.
Little Micky politely giggled back at me.
“Two minutes,” said Michael. “Let’s go upstairs.”
The Tripsmobile had a sun deck on the roof, planted with grass and dandelions. We’d intended to put a few lawn chairs up there, too, and a table with a parasol, but we never got around to it. And now we were going to use it for a battlefield. I giggled again. Little Micky joined me.
We took our places along the fence, ten of us facing the beach, four guarding the rear and flanks. Sean was now among the gigglers, and most of the others were smiling.
“One minute,” Mike announced. “And before we begin, I have a request to make. Please try to avoid killing each other. Especially me.”
“I agree,” I said. “Don’t blow your cool.” Several people giggled.
There was nothing happening on the beach yet. It still had that deserted look. There was no trace of the lobster gang, no sign of the war approaching. Only Laszlo’s footprints on the sand suggested anything had ever happened there.
“Thirty seconds.”
I tried to project a test hallucination, but I wasn’t ready yet. I wished Little Micky’d run a test. I decided against suggesting it — he’d doubtless want an explanation, and I didn’t feel up to it.
“Twenty.”
Nothing happening yet. No more gigglers, either, but that might not signify: some heads never giggle. I, for instance, never giggle. But…
“Fifteen.”
Nothing, not even a breeze in the willows.
“Ten. Get ready.”
I hate countdowns. Always have. Michael, on the other hand, is passionately fond of countdowns. You never can tell.
“Five. Four. Three.” Nothing on the beach. “Two. One. Zero!”
Nothing continued happening. Mike’s face expressed innocence betrayed in exhaustive detail.
“Is it kosher to use negative numbers?” I inquired.
“Sloppy, that’s what they are,” said Michael. “Sloppy.” He was really burned. “How do they expect to…”
Something was happening! The willows were shaking. Something was pushing its way through the willows. Something was…
It was a lobster in a silver blanket. Maybe even Ktch. He pushed the last layer of willow wands aside with his huge claws and stared out at us for maybe half a minute, making good and sure we were still there. Then he backed away into the thicket and we started breathing again.
“I hate an unpunctual lobster,” Michael said, still peeved.
And the willows were rustling again, more vigorously, as though something larger than a lobster were forcing a way through them. They went on rustling for a painfully long time. Whatever was coming wasn’t in a hurry. The willows
’ agitation mounted to frenzy. The last curtain of leaves was hurled aside as though by a gale.
Somebody moaned.
The black shadow moved slowly toward us down the beach.
26
LITTLE MICKY bracketed the shadow with odd-shaped, rapid-fire cannons, but the shells passed through it like nothing at all, not bothering it a bit. I got the impression that the shadow didn’t even notice the cannons and shells, that it was aware of nothing on this whole green planet but our shaggy selves. This was not an impression to treasure.
Little Micky switched to explosive shells. They revised the landscape pretty drastically, but failed to inconvenience the shadow.
The shadow, meanwhile, was projecting gross despair and future pain much more intensely than before, inconveniencing us no end.
Little Micky poised two flamethrowers above the shadow and smothered it in fire. The shadow noticed this. It absorbed the flames, and then the flamethrowers, doubled its height, and kept coming.
I was now officially up tight. This wasn’t going according to the script at all. Of course, I hadn’t expected the first assault to be the shadow, but there it was, and Little Micky didn’t seem to be able to cope with it, and it didn’t seem especially stoppable, and I didn’t like anything that was happening.
Micky dropped bombs on the shadow — good, fat, healthy bombs — and the shadow didn’t notice.
“No!” Micky yelled. He was losing his temper.
The shadow reached the water while Micky was working out his next move. The water drew away from the shadow, as though refusing to touch such a thing. Spooky. The water wouldn’t come within a foot of the shadow, nor could I blame it. So the shadow moved toward us in the center of an absence of water. If I were superstitious…
“All right, you mother!” Micky had worked something out. “Take that!”
High-pressure hoses surrounded the shadow and shot iron-hard jets of water at it. The thought was good, but it didn’t work. The twelve-inch limit still applied, and the jets were shattered and deflected upward in a spectacular fifty-foot-high fountain that soundly drenched us and accomplished nothing else.
The Butterfly Kid Page 18
