by Tim Kring
BC ran to his seat. The only thing left on the table was the novel by Philip K. Dick, the half-smoked cigar sitting on top of it like a turd. BC noted that the book was turned toward his companion’s seat and, flicking the cigar off it, he flipped open the cover. A folded, wrinkled piece of paper fell out, on which had been hastily scrawled:
TELL MR. HANDY I SAID THANKS FOR THE DRINKS!
OH, AND BY THE WAY, I AM BLACK.
—MELCHIOR
The piece of paper was moist, as if it had soaked up some of the CIA man’s—Melchior’s—sweat, and BC unfolded it delicately, as much to avoid getting the moisture on his hand as to keep from tearing the paper. The diagram that emerged didn’t make any sense at first. It showed a complicated mechanical device, possibly an engine of some kind. Most of the captions were written in what BC thought was a Cyrillic alphabet, but one English word popped off the page: “Polonium-210.”
“Oh, my God.”
BC grabbed his coat and hat from the luggage rack, swept up the book and paper from the tabletop—and, on impulse, the cigar butt too—and sprinted down the aisle. Before he’d taken two steps, the doors swished apart and people spilled out of the car like water through the opened gates of a dam. BC pushed his way through the crowd, his head darting left and right for a sign of Melchior—and then suddenly he was on the platform, and he pulled up short.
He stood there with his bundle clutched to his chest like a refugee as the bombers scream across the sky. The train shed of the nation’s largest and busiest rail station occupied an enormous dusky cavern that receded into the distance on every side of him—acre upon acre of fretted steel columns reaching more than a hundred feet into the air and supporting a barrel-vaulted ceiling made of what seemed like millions of grimy panes of glass. At one end were a dozen arched tunnels disappearing into the bowels of the earth, at the other an equal number of staircases climbing two stories to the crowded concourse. But it was a cloudy day, and what little light managed to penetrate the filthy ceiling cast thick, oily shadows that confounded the eye, and on top of that at least two other trains were loading and unloading passengers: hundreds of people were pushing and weaving their way along the platform, nearly all of them shrouded in rain-darkened jackets and hats. BC’s eyes flitted desperately from one to the next. Melchior had been carrying neither coat nor hat, and BC did his best to confine his search to the bare heads. There were only a few, but in the murky light every exposed head seemed uniformly dark. Any of the men could have been Melchior—or none of them.
He sprinted for the stairs at the end of the platform, ran into the station’s world-famous waiting room. He didn’t notice the immense coffered ceilings, the pink marble floors (muddied on this wet day, and stained with tens of thousands of footprints), the diffuse light streaming in through arched windows taller and wider than his house in Takoma Park. He raced across the waiting room—two blocks long and nearly half a block wide—up the stairs, out the front entrance. At least he didn’t have to look for his car. A two-door coupé, mint green and shiny, individual raindrops glittering on its freshly waxed hood like a thousand slivers of glass, was parked directly in front of the main door, chaperoned by a nattily dressed young man leaning against a No Parking sign. He looked mightily pleased with himself.
BC ran up to the man, fumbling through the bundle of his coat to retrieve his wallet. He flashed his badge.
“Special Agent Querrey. Is this my car?”
“Nineteen sixty-two Chevrolet Corvair,” the man drawled like a car salesman. “I’d roll the windows down if I was—”
BC pushed the man out of the way, threw his bundle into the passenger’s seat, and—after pumping the gas too hard and flooding the engine and waiting five minutes for the plugs to clear—squealed down Seventh Avenue. Before he’d gone a single block the cabin had filled with noxious fumes coming in through the air vents, and he had to roll the window down.
He caught a last glimpse of the station’s facade in the rearview mirror, five hundred feet of Doric columns stretching out like God’s own picket fence. It really was impressive—more imposing than the biggest monuments in Washington—but he thought he remembered hearing talk of tearing it down. But in truth BC was less concerned with the possibility of New York losing its grandest edifice than with his own loss of a smaller piece of property. Not his briefcase: his bookmark, which, like his house, his name, and his sense of revulsion at the crude workings of the human body, he’d inherited from his mother. Thus are history’s losses measured: eight acres of stone and glass and steel on the one hand; on the other, an ivory sliver no bigger than a driver’s license. Both smudged from years of contact with human hands, and even more obscured by the shroud of sentiment that makes it difficult for us to see clearly the things we hold most dear. It would be the bookmark BC missed more in the years to come, Pennsylvania Station having played a significant role in the life of New York City but not in his.
But all that was in the distant future. Right now he had to get to Millbrook,9 to something Director Hoover had called an “experimental community” run by a Dr. Timothy Leary.6 He had no idea what was so important that both the FBI and the CIA had to send men to investigate. All he knew was that he had to get there before Melchior.
Millbrook, NY
November 4, 1963
Chevy’d added an optional 150-hp engine to the ’62 Corvair, but the Bureau’d clearly stuck with the 98-hp mid-range model. BC could’ve sworn the little engine cursed at him, and carbon monoxide spewed from the heater vents in visible gusts, but the little minx did what she was told. The posted limit on the Taconic was sixty-five; BC stamped both feet on the accelerator if the car dropped below ninety. He had to fight the Corvair’s tendency to oversteer, a consequence of its unusual engine placement over the rear axle, and on top of that rush hour had begun. Despite this, BC covered the fifty-mile shot up the curvy, car-choked parkway in thirty-two minutes.
Once in Millbrook he had to find Dr. Leary’s community—Castle or Castille, Castalia, something like that. The directions had been in his briefcase (along with the files on Project Orpheus), but even without them he had no trouble locating his target. At the edge of town he saw a large hand-painted sign in multicolored bubble letters:
YOU ARE ON THE PATH TO TRUE
ENLIGHTENMENT
(JUST TURN LEFT!)
Beneath that, someone had added in smaller but significantly clearer letters:
FREAKS GO HOME!
BC knew nothing about either the freaks or their detractors, but his initial reaction was to side with the latter, if only for their penmanship.
A mile down the road he came to an absurd fieldstone gatehouse, complete with a turret peaked like a witch’s cap and something that looked a lot like a portcullis. Another half mile of curved driveway led to an enormous and extravagant building, a Lilliputian dollhouse swollen to Brobdingnagian proportions, with towers and gables and hundreds of feet of porch wrapping around the whole thing. Glasses and plates were strewn around the unmown lawn that stretched in front of it, along with a truly remarkable number of wine and liquor bottles, while a glowering pine forest encroached on the back. The dense trees, already losing their color in the failing light, made the giant house seem two-dimensional, as if you would open the front door and emerge on the other side of a theatrical flat. With the exception of the dishes and bottles and a few items of clothing, the place seemed to be deserted.
The Corvair sighed in relief when he killed the engine, and a moment later BC heard the sound of a distant jackhammer—woodpecker, he realized a moment later, and chuckled at himself. It had been a long time since he’d been in the country. The things of nature sounded like the things of man to his ears, when even he knew it should have been the other way around.
All at once he felt his shirt plastered to the small of his back, realized he was still sitting in the car with both hands glued to the wheel. Somewhat sheepishly, he opened the door. It was hardly better outside. A cool, cloyin
g haze pressed wetly down on everything. Even the blades of grass sagged beneath its weight.
It was only after he was standing on the bent grass that he realized he hadn’t wanted to leave the relative safety of the car. He was a boy of the suburbs. He liked trees and grass and birds just fine, but he liked them regimented, the grass mowed, the trees planted a uniform distance from one another, the birds regulated by local ordinance. But it was more than that. There was something unnerving about this place—something distinct from the humidity and the litter scattered over the lawn and the ragged curtains flapping from the open windows like a hydra’s tongues. Something that had to do with the glowering pine forest on the far side of the house, which, like a painting by Magritte, seemed to suck up what was left of the sunlight even as each needle remained as sharply outlined as a syringe. The house was his immediate objective, of course (assuming these people hadn’t taken to living in trees), but somehow he sensed that the forest was his ultimate destination. He cursed himself for getting sucked into Melchior’s contumely instead of reading the files in his briefcase as he should have done. The scattered, spooky phrases Melchior had tossed around flitted through his head—“sleeper agents” and “psychological experiments” and “Manchurian candidates” and “mental powers.” A few solid facts would have gone a long way toward easing his nerves. As it was, he was going to have to rely on his wits and—he squeezed his arm against his side, as if it might have disappeared with his briefcase—his gun.
The woodpecker drilled, paused, drilled, paused. There was a longer pause, then a bout of drilling so sustained that BC half expected to hear the crack of falling timber.
Centering his hat firmly on his head, he began to walk toward the porch. Before he’d gone five steps the front door opened. BC stopped short. So did the girl on the porch. BC wasn’t sure why she stopped. He was wearing a normal suit, after all, whereas she was wearing a pair of denim pants that had been cut off all the way to the crease of her pelvis and—he squinted—yup, nothing else. He had to squint because the girl had exceptionally thick, long, dark hair pulled forward over her shoulders as in portraits of Lady Godiva. BC thought perhaps she was wearing a French bikini top. But no, her upper body was bare. The skin visible on the sides of her breasts was as evenly tanned as her arms, suggesting this wasn’t the first time she’d walked outside so sparsely attired, and when she lifted her right arm to wave at him, her hair fell to one side and there, as full as an apple and brown as a piece of toast, was her breast.
The closest BC had ever come to seeing a naked chest was in the intimate apparel section of the Sears catalogs he hid in his bedroom closet. Their chaste airbrushed photographs of bullet bras made a pair of breasts look as geometrically pristine as side-by-side snowcapped mountains, whereas this was a sac of living, quivering flesh—not symmetrical at all, but gently sloped on the top and softly curved beneath. At the sight of it, BC’s fingertips tingled and for some reason he found himself imagining how it would feel in his hands. Like a dove, he thought. Warm and soft, the heartbeat faintly palpable in his palm. Another man might have envisioned a less delicate animal, a more vigorous touch. Might have felt the tingle in a part of his anatomy other than his fingertips. BC, however, was a good boy, and he immediately averted his eyes.
But:
“Welcome! We’re so glad you found us!”
And of course BC had seen naked women before. But these women had been uniformly dead, toes tagged, flesh an icy blue and bearing the marks of whatever had killed them, which rendered them both sexless and asexual—and of course silent. He hadn’t realized a girl could speak with no clothes on and was unsure if he could—let alone should—reply. He stared mutely as the girl walked toward him as though she were as primly dressed and perfectly coiffed as Mary Tyler Moore greeting Dick Van Dyke just home from work. Her hair had fallen unevenly around her breast, and the nipple showed through the sparse strands, which somehow made it more prominent than when it had been completely uncovered.
The girl followed BC’s gaze down to her breast, looked up again, smiled.
“Don’t worry, come Monday you won’t even remember how to tie that bureaucratic noose, let alone why you put it on in the first place.”
It was incredible! She talked just like a girl in clothes. Fire didn’t shoot from her mouth, the syllables were perfectly intelligible (although it took BC a moment to figure out “bureaucratic noose” referred to his tie).
“Shy, are we?”
She was right in front of him. Her hands were on his upper arms. BC braced himself, as though she were going to pick him up like a doll and toss him through the air. But all she did was raise herself on her tiptoes, her breasts pressing lightly against his chest with only the flimsiest layer of hair between them and his suit—which, as far as he was concerned, was his flesh—and then, lightly but lingeringly, she kissed him on the lips.
“Welcome to Castalia,” she said, her voice huskier now, the welcome broader than it had been a moment ago.
“Jenny!” an amused but sharp male voice called from somewhere to the left. “Get away from that poor man. You’re scandalizing him to death.”
BC jumped back like a teenager surprised by the babysitter’s parents. He turned to see a slim man rounding the corner of the house. Unlike the girl, his upper body was fully covered—by a long-sleeved yellow button-down whose loose tails winked in the breeze—but it wasn’t immediately clear if he had anything on beneath it. He had a friendly, slightly crooked smile and bright blue eyes and unruly blond hair that was shedding its last respectable cut as quickly as the follicles would allow.
“We didn’t expect you so quickly. You must have made great time.”
“Ye-es,” BC said experimentally. Everything seemed to be working. “Dr. Leary? I’m—”
“Oh, let’s not stand on formalities.” Leary used his clipboard to fend off both the name and the hand that came with it. “We just call the other one Puss-n-Boots.”
“The other—”
“Or Candy Striper,” the girl, Jenny, said, cutting him off.
“Ralph calls him Spooky, which is a little on the nose, but that’s Ralph for you.”
Jenny laughed. “And poor Dickie just calls him, and calls him, and calls him.”
“Jennifer, please.”
Jenny gave BC a once-over. “I think I’m going to call this one Lone Ranger. Because his face is a mask.” She leaned forward to give BC a second, wetter kiss. “You’re going to have a long life,” she said to him quietly, “if you ever let it begin.”
Both BC and Leary stared after her retreating form. “You think her tits are nice,” the doctor sighed, “you should see the rest of her. That girl’s vagina is so agile it could lace up a pair of jackboots and tie them with a sailor’s knot.”
“I …” BC didn’t know what to say. “I don’t know what to say.”
Leary laughed aloud. “Makes you believe the old stories, doesn’t it? That the best way to get information from a spy is via the intercession of a beautiful woman.”
At the word “spy,” something clicked in BC’s brain, and he realized that Leary had taken him not as a guest but as a CIA agent.
Leary’s blue eyes twinkled. “Believe me when I tell you that what I’m going to show you will make you forget all about Jenny.”
He turned and hurried off—toward the back of the house, BC saw, and the dark forest beyond. BC hesitated, but the doctor was skipping along like a leprechaun. Taking a deep breath, BC set off after him.
“I want to prepare you for what you’re about to see,” Leary was saying when BC caught up with him. “It’s going to be a bit shocking, and I don’t want you to panic.”
BC had heard this kind of line from countless coroners and county sheriffs, and in a slightly prideful voice he said, “I’ve seen many shocking things, Dr. Leary.”
“No doubt you have, in your line of work. But that didn’t stop Agent Morganthau from collapsing like Charlie McCarthy without Edgar Berge
n’s hand up his ass.”
Morganthau? The name rang a bell, and then he remembered that the director had mentioned him in his briefing before he put him on the train. BC wondered if he and Melchior were the same person.
“Where is Agent Morganthau?”
“I left him with Forrestal and the girl in the cottage. The thing is, Agent, ah—I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?”
Girl? Neither Hoover nor Melchior had mentioned a girl.
“Gamin,” BC said absentmindedly. It was his mother’s maiden name. “Who is—”
“Please, Agent Gamin.” Leary’s voice took on a sterner note. “Lecture first, questions after. Just listen for a moment.”
After Melchior’s rant on the train, the last thing he wanted to hear was another lecture. But he was too busy staring into the dark trees that were closing around them to protest.
“Now then. Our work at Castalia is concerned with the human animal’s neuronal experience of the world around him. In layman’s terms, his senses. If the conscious part of our brain had to process all the raw material our senses recorded, we’d end up so flooded with data that we wouldn’t be able to walk upright or feed ourselves, let alone perform complex motor tasks like climbing a ladder or playing a cello or sculpting The Gates of Hell. Information must be excluded. Not just some of it: most of it. This process of selection starts from the moment we exit the womb and continues until death. It’s so pervasive that we might just as well say life is a process of rejecting experience rather than accumulating it.”
