Using every karate trick he knew, Shima twisted through the crowd to the edge of the cordon. “Gretchen!” he shouted. “Gretchen! Can you hear me? It’s Blaise. We’ve got to go to a funeral.”
“What? What?” Gretchen leaned forward and peered past the PloFather. “Is that you, Blaise?”
“Yes. Can you hear me? We have to attend Winifred Ashley’s funeral.”
“Who? What?”
“Winifred Ashley. She’s dead. She was killed. Don’t make any deals with the P.L.O. The Queen Bee’s dead.”
The brougham door was thrust open and Gretchen was out like a shot followed, amazingly, by the psychomancer, Salem Burne. Shima hustled her through the crowd to Ind’dni who was waiting at the fringe. Burne followed.
“Most welcome, madame,” Ind’dni said. “It is permitted to inquire whether we found you in time? Have you completed contract with P.L.O.?”
“Yes,” Gretchen gasped.
“Extremely odd. Why, then, did the PloFather permit your departure?”
Still too breathless to speak, Gretchen could only point to Burne.
“Good evening, Mr. Burne.” Ind’dni nodded courteously. “I take it you have some influence with the PloFather?”
“Good evening, Subadar.” Burne was smooth and polished as ever, despite his rough passage through the mob. “I take it this is in confidence?”
“Most certainly.”
“The PloFather is my patient.”
Shima was flabbergasted. “You have to be guffing!”
“Why so surprised, doctor?” Burne permitted his controlled face to reveal humor. “I told you that most of my patients are women.”
“But—”
“And the PloFather takes my advice. I suggested—one never commands a patient—that it would be best to release Miz Nunn.”
Gretchen finally caught her breath. “Now what’s all this? Regina dead? Killed?”
“Alas yes, madame, by Mr. Lafferty in bizarre circumstances. Lafferty was subsequently killed by Dr. Shima… in self-defense.”
“What? Regina? Droney?” Gretchen shook her head. “What a scam. Unbelievable! What happened? How? When? I—I’ve got to be filled in.”
“Most assuredly, Miz Nunn, but not in this crowd. Where will you feel most receptive? My office? Dr. Shima’s penthouse? My apartment?”
“No, mine. Let’s go.”
“Then I’ll be taking my leave,” Burne said. “Good evening to you all.”
“No,” Gretchen said. “That wouldn’t be fair, after all you’ve done for us. You were in on the beginning; you should be in on the end.”
Transport was impossible to find during the evening rush hour, so they were forced to walk to Gretchen’s Oasis in the Guff’s “Old Town,” which had once been the despised Lower East Side of Old New York. Now it was fashionable, expensive, and glamorously restored, from delicatessens to pushcarts. Gretchen’s Oasis had been cut, tunneled, and excavated out of the giant masonry pier of Brooklyn Bridge.
There was an outrageous uproar pounding out of the apartment as the four approached from the elevator; cacophonous music from competing brass, piano and harpsichord, singing, screaming, shouting, buzzing; and there were competing songs: HAIL! HAIL! THE GUFF’S ALL HERE… THERE ONCE WAS AN INDIAN MAID… THAT MASTURBATIN’ FORNICATIN’ SON-OF-A-BITCH COLUMBO… SWEET VIOLETS SWEETER THAN THE ROSES… ROLL ME OVER IN THE CLOVER…
“Jesus God!” Gretchen exclaimed. “What’s all this?”
“The Golem?” Shima was still on edge.
“Surely not in multiple, doctor,” Ind’dni murmured.
“Hardly an atmosphere for consultation,” Burne said. “Perhaps my place in Hell Gate?”
“D’you think it could be the PloFather striking back at me? She—” Then Gretchen saw one of her staff standing stricken alongside the door. “Alex! What’s all this?”
“They’re crazy, Miz Nunn. They broke in.”
“Broke in? Through Security? How?”
“I don’t know how. They broke in and threw me out. No drones in here, they said. No male animals. This is a queen cell, they said. Then they chopped through to the Raxon apartment under us for more room and ordered up food and—”
“They? Who they?”
“Lunatics in crazy costumes. Go in, Miz. You’ll see. They’re waiting for you. Dozens and dozens and dozens of them.” He pushed the door open.
There were indeed dozens and dozens and dozens. The Raxons, mother and three daughters, had not only surrendered their apartment downstairs, but joined the swarm. Gretchen’s two girl assistants had joined. Three of the Security guards from the Oasis lobby (women) had joined, which accounted for the unprecedented break-in. The two apartments had been transformed into a giant duplex with a makeshift ladder thrust through the crater in the smashed floor. Figurantes, columbines, ballet girls, pulcinellas, soubrettes, even a belly-dancer clung to it like grape clusters, heaving, shouting, singing.
Hi-ho, Gafoozalum,
The Big Bang of Jerusalum.
Hi-ho, Gafoozalum,
The vengeance of the rabbi.
With yancey glance and lustful look
She lured him to a secret nook.
She cracked his crotch and out she took
The pride of all Jerusalum.
Hi-ho, Gafoozalum,
The Big Rang of Jerusalum.
Hi-ho, Gafoozalum,
The malice of the rabbi.
But she was swinging on her kang;
He missed her mouth and hit her bang.
He knew it by the feel of fang
In the fancy of Gafoozalum.
The four crowded the doorway and stood, gaping at the spectacle. Young Alex had reported correctly; there wasn’t a man present. Shima, Ind’dni and Burne didn’t dare enter; only Gretchen took a few steps into her apartment.
Suddenly Shima said, “Looking at all these women, something just occurred to me, Ind’dni.”
“Indeed? What is it?”
“Why doesn’t the Golem ever appear as a woman?” Shima asked.
“An interesting point, doctor,” Ind’dni said. They could barely hear each other over the uproar. “Perhaps our psychomancer can answer.”
“Possibly Jung’s construct of the ‘inward face’ of people,” Burne said. “The Golem might be generated by the animus, the masculine side of the female psyche; hence it always takes the form of a man. If it were generated by men, their anima or female side would produce a woman.”
While they were considering this, Gretchen shouted, “Will you look at the banquet these crazies have put together!”
There was indeed a royal banquet, fit for a Bee Queen. Trays and dishes and platters and tureens of food everywhere; Bee’s Wing Broth, Honey-baked Hams, Mussels in Oyster Sauce, Royal Jellied Eels, Lobster tails in thyme aspic, Pollen Fritters, Hive Tack, Protein Pudding, Honey Cakes, Sucrose Sherbets, and stockpots of honey Mead and Welsh Nectar. There were trays of every sweet-scented squeam on the market. There were garlands of green, danced and trampled into the floors, emitting pungent scents of tansy, lovage, rosemary, sage, and sweet basil.
HAIL! HAIL! THE GUFF’S ALL HERE! Hey, BB! Hi, BB! Regina’s dead. You know? Every person knows. My former mizperson was famous. This is her wake, BB. The queen is dead. Long live Nellie the Second Regina. Zolstu azoy laiben! It’s Yenta the First. Who says? Bimbo, the Bold says with her Hammer of Thor. I’ve decided WE shall be:
Haaaaaa! And how would Sarah like five in the pie-slot from Ood, the Terrible? We are not amused. Could I please be Pie, the First? Mummy would want me to call myself Victoria R, the Clean Queen. There’s regal drag on the costume rack; how about Norah R, the Darlin’ Queen? Vote like for The Pessaries, the Combo Queen. But how can R stand for queen? I thought it meant king like in R.F.D. Makes sense to her. It’s Latin, dummy. All hail Mary, the Dumbo Queen! HICK! HIKE! HOKE! THE QUEEN’S ALL HERE!
“My God, Subadar, this is a disaster! I thought Regina’s death would solve everything
; end the colony, end the Golem, end the crisis in the Guff, and now look at this lunatic scene. What, in heaven’s name, are these insane women doing?”
“That is not the crucial question, madame. We understand what they’re doing.”
“I don’t. What are they doing?”
“Mr. Burne,” Ind’dni turned to the psychomancer. “You are the expert in somatic language. Tell Miz Nunn.”
“They’re selecting a new queen to lead their commune. Agreed, Subadar?”
“Agreed, Mr. Burne. But the crucial question is, what is the Golem Hundred-Hander doing through all this?”
“But Subadar,” Gretchen argued, “didn’t we agree that it couldn’t survive without the bee-ladies’ collective to generate it?”
“We did, but it must exist still. It is too strong and protean merely to cease, punkt! And it will most probably be searching for another source to give it soul and survival.”
“Jesu!” Shima exclaimed. “Then it might be in this mob right now, looking around.”
“Not likely, doctor,” Ind’dni said. “Please to listen to the chorus of the assembled swarm…”
Mother, may I go out to yance?
Yes, my darling daughter.
Shake your hance in a grabby prance,
But don’t go near his mortar.
“Do you hear a man’s voice, doctor? No. It is patent that there are only women here, and Golem100 never manifests as a woman.”
Shima nodded. “R. Then what will this shipwrecked-to-hell creature be doing?”
“It will be swimming desperately,” Burne put in. “Agreed, Subadar?”
“Emphatically agreed, Mr. Burne. I believe this plastic, soulless eidolon will be ranging up and down the spectrum of people, perceptions, terrors, compulsions; through colors, sounds, waves, particles; desperately searching for another generator, another collective soul-home to ensure its survival. We must pray that it does not.”
“No, Subadar!” Gretchen’s voice verged on hysteria.
“No, madame? You are agnostic?”
“Nothing of the sort. Blaise, is that bathysphere of Dr. Leuz still equipped with your neurosensory contacts?”
“Yes. Why? Thinking of taking another deep dive to cool the heat?”
“No, I want to use it on dry land.”
“Gretch! Will you make sense!”
“I can’t. I’m possessed.”
“What possesses you, Miz Nunn?”
“Projection,” Burne said. “The fever in these women is rubbing off on Miz Nunn. Pulse and respiration rapid. Muscle tone spasmodic.”
“And I’m beset with mad ideas,” Gretchen added.
“Can you specify, madame?”
“One of them is that I can’t let go of the Golem monster with just a prayer. I—I want to—I must be in on the kill.”
“Hold it, Ind’dni,” Shima said. “I think I know where she’s headed.” To Gretchen, “You want another Pm trip into the Phasmaworld to observe, using the bathysphere setup to report. Yes?”
“Yes, but not me. Someone better equipped. You can interface the observer with your neural contacts, Blaise, and we’ll get realtime observations.”
“It’s an idea, Gretch…” Shima took fire. “By God, it’s a damned good idea. Then we’ll know for sure.”
“But who better equipped than yourself, madame?” Ind’dni asked. “You are uniquely suited, and have had the experience before.”
“May I translate what I read in my distinguished colleague, Subadar?” Burne asked.
“By all means.”
“She wants an observer too subtle, too sophisticated, too firmly anchored in deep emotional resources to be overpowered as she was by the disorientation of the Phasmaworld. Strong enough to resist. Controlled enough to report dispassionately. Mystic enough to understand the transcendental.”
Gretchen stared. “My soma said all that to you?”
“Not quite, Miz Nunn. You made many things clear when we were chatting on the way to this Oasis.”
“But great Dyaus!” Ind’dni exclaimed. “How will we find such a paragon? Does he exist?”
“He does, Subadar.”
“Where?”
Burne turned to Gretchen. “Tell him, please.”
“I will,” she said. She looked Ind’dni full in the face. “In you.”
20
The Drogh III was berthed in the Sandy Hook marina of the Oceanography center. The bathysphere was cradled on the foredeck of the trawler and Ind’dni was inside, encoiled as Gretchen had been, with neural contacts. There was a significant addition, however; a sensor had been interfaced with his larynx to enable his speech to be heard… if he could shape any words from the Phasmaworld.
Shima injected Ind’dni with the Pm hydride, slapped his shoulder twice, and scrambled out of the bathysphere. He slammed the hatch, dogged it, and dashed to the control cabin where Gretchen was waiting. He gave her a short nod, switched on the instruments and scanned the panels. “All nominal,” he muttered.
The bathysphere was less than a hundred feet away from the cabin but a good country mile via the winched cable that connected them with the Subadar. Shima picked up the microphone communicating with the bathysphere and waited. Salem Burne would have said of him, “Pulse and respiration rapid. Muscle tone spasmodic.”
The same could not have been said of Ind’dni.
At last a calm voice came through the control cabin speaker. “Do you read me, doctor?”
“Loud and clear, Ind’dni.”
“Miz Nunn, are you still in attendance?”
“Yes, Subadar.”
“This is of intense interest. Unlike you two who went into black per your descriptions, I have gone into white. Apparently the Promethium drug does not affect all identical.”
“Are you sure the white isn’t a sense-echo?”
“Quite certain, doctor.”
“Then its effect is on the psyche rather than the soma, Subadar,” Gretchen said, “and all are different. Apparently you can maintain contact with the real-world while you’re in the Phasmaworld. Blaise and I couldn’t.”
“I would agree, Miz Nunn. All somas are similar, more or less; otherwise medicine would still be in the medieval; but no two psyches are identical. It will be interesting, if ever they succeed in cloning people, to find whether the personalities will be as identical as the bodies.”
(“This dude is really cool. Gretchen.”)
(“That’s why I wanted him sent under.”)
“Still nothing but white, doctor,” Ind’dni continued reporting, “but I am assured. There is a Hindu saying: ‘It is certain because it is impossible.’ I— Wait, please. Something is beginning to manifest…”
“Ah yes. Remarkable. I am sensing a particle perception in this Phasmaworld. I am also pleased to report that my guess was correct. The Hundred-Hander creature is most probably starting its search at the very top of the electromagnetic spectrum. Perhaps the Id is strongly attracted by high-energy sources…”
“I am perceiving the Ourworld… the tip of the iceberg, you called it, Miz Nunn… through the perceptions of the Idworld. It is bizarre, to say the least, and arresting. That line of Robert Burns: Oh wad some power the giftie gie us to see oursels as others see us! Apologies for most maladroit Scots pronunciation. You have given me the power, Dr. Shima and Miz Nunn, and I am intensely grateful.”
(“He’s so goddam sophisticated!”)
“Ah! Formless shapes are now being perceived in the Ourworld by the Idworld. I would guess that the Phasma sensing is descending down the spectrum to— What would it be, doctor?”
“It would still be particle bombardment, Ind’dni. Probably the gamma-ray region. Hard X-rays. Around ten to the minus eight centimeters.”
“But is it the Golem’s perceptions, Subadar?”
“Most likely, Miz Nunn. We are very much en rapport with it after earlier encounters, but I do not yet know certainly.”
“You are infallible as ever,
doctor. The residents of our iceberg tip are now being perceived with gamma-ray vision…”
“I think it is possible that I may have picked up the Hundred-Hander at last. We are still in the X-ray area, and I am perceiving through Id senses what appears to be a womb, which is to say a new home for the shipwrecked creature…”
“Miz Nunn! Miz Nunn! Miz Nunn! It has a remarkably clear perception of yourself in the role…”
“So now it senses impending death.”
“Most remarkable. As the creature descends our visual spectrum into the— What might it be, doctor?”
“From the extreme violet down through indigo, blue, green, yellow, and orange to the extreme red.”
“Thank you.”
(“Christ, he’s cool! Doesn’t the son-of-a-bitch feel anything?”)
“Now the desperate thing is searching for the protection of a father.”
“Psychodynamically consistent, Subadar. Son and father are deadly enemies in the contest for the mother.”
“I feared as much. It is a vision of Garuda, a deadly Hindu god, and it is how the Golem envisions me as its father.”
“Suddenly there is a sensation of extreme heat. Most uncomfortable. Can you explain, please, Dr. Shima?”
“Easy. The Golem’s down under the extreme red and into the infrared. Heat’s a phenomenon there.”
“Then we are no longer within the visible?”
“No.”
“Interesting. What can it hope to find here? And now strange vibrations, Dr. Shima.”
GOLEM 100 Page 22
