The Paul Di Filippo Megapack

by Pau Di Filippo

  “Enter, please.”

  Kirsten opened the door and went in.

  Behind a standard professorial desk sat the man who had obviously cast the elongated shadow. His labcoat was all disordered, rucked up somehow around his neck. To the side, barely fitting in a big chair, a second man sat, identically dressed.

  “Ah, my dear, come in, come in,” the tall man said. “My name is Pennypacker, and my esteemed associate here is Jearl. I assume you are responding to our solicitation for a subject to aid us in our latest work.”

  “Yes, I am,” Kirsten said. Were they wearing their coats backwards?

  “Wonderful. You’re the first, and hence undoubtedly the best qualified. We merely have to ask you a single question concerning your epistemology, before making a final decision.”

  “My what?”

  Jearl spoke up. “Don’t take offense, Miss. We refer merely to your philosophy regarding knowledge. Do you favor rational thought over intuition, or vice versa?”

  Kirsten pondered the question for trick implications, could discern none, and thought it best to answer honestly.

  “Well, I try to apply both in my life. I mean, if you don’t listen to your heart, where are you? But on the other hand, it pays to look before you leap.”

  Pennypacker clapped his hands together. “Marvelous! I could hardly have found two cliches more suited to express the attitude we are seeking in our subject. You’re hired! Here is five hundred dollars up front, for the first trial.”

  Advancing around the desk, Pennypacker stuffed the bills in Kirsten’s purse.

  “Hey, wait a minute. I need to know a little bit more about this experiment before I agree. Don’t you want my name, at least, and some references?”

  “Nonsense. We trust you implicitly. Your word is your bond, we are sure.”

  “But I haven’t agreed yet! What are my responsibilities? Is this gonna cut into my free time a lot? I’m carrying a full course-load this semester.”

  “Your duties are minimal. We wish you to live your life exactly as you have been doing, merely keeping a diary for us of your inner reactions to the drug and how it alters your decision-making faculties.”

  “Drug! Hey now, the ad didn’t say anything about drugs. I don’t smoke, drink or do dope. This isn’t the sixties anymore, you know.”

  Pennypacker dismissed Kirsten’s fear with a suave gesture. “The solution you will receive is simply a mix of chemicals already present in your brain. It’s one hundred percent natural. Just like NutraSweet. Now if you will kindly submit to Jearl for a moment—”

  Somehow, Jearl had come up behind her with impossible stealth. Now he pinioned her arms. She watched as Pennypacker took out a hypodermic and filled it from a glass vial bearing a white label. He advanced on Kirsten with an odd smile.

  “You should be grateful,” Jearl said from behind her. “Before we solved the problem of getting past the blood-brain barrier, we used to have to drip the solution directly onto the cortex.”

  Kirsten fainted.

  * * * *

  “—two tickets.”

  His speech concluded, Arthur Hennepin stared longingly at Kirsten, his moony face nearly bisected by his broad smile. The couple sat at a food-speckled table in the cafeteria. Arthur was rather pudgy, with thin blond wisps of hair straggling across a spot of premature baldness. His major was accounting, his minor subject ornithology. Kirsten’s girlfriends frequently demanded to know what a beauty of her caliber saw in Arthur. She would patiently explain that they had known each other since elementary school, that Arthur was “sweet and devoted” and that he would someday make a good salary, at his longed-for job: keeping the books for the Audubon Society.

  But her girlfriends would always persist: “Isn’t he dull as dust, though?”

  And Kirsten, honestly forced to reply “Yes,” was lately beginning to have her doubts about Arthur.

  However, at this minute she had much more on her mind than Arthur’s lack of stimulating qualities.

  Those two screwy guys—exactly what had they done to her, and what was she going to do about it? Imagine their nerve, injecting her with some untested drug without her permission! Yet, hadn’t she tacitly agreed to participate when she hadn’t immediately rejected their money? It was all very confusing. Why not give them the benefit of the doubt? Perhaps they were just eager to come up with some new wonder drug that would benefit all mankind. She suspected scientists got carried away occasionally with their enthusiasms. Take that Sagan fellow, for instance. Why, sometimes he seemed almost frothing— And the drug seemed to have no adverse effects—yet.

  Kirsten opened her pocketbook, verified that the money was indeed there, and decided to go along.

  “Kirsten,” Arthur said with an impatient whine, “I don’t think you’ve heard a word I’ve said.”

  “Of course I have, Arthur,” she replied, although truthfully, she hadn’t. In fact, the whole trip across campus to the cafeteria was somewhat hazy in her mind, and she seemed to be having trouble concentrating. Perhaps she had been a little hasty in discounting the effects of the drug.

  Kirsten took Arthur’s hand and squeezed it. His smile threatened to wrap around his ears. “I’m sorry, Arthur. Maybe I was a little distracted. Would you mind running things by me once again?”

  “Well, since you’ve been saying lately that we don’t do anything exciting, I gave it some thought, and decided, what the hell, let’s splurge. So I managed to buy two tickets to the concert tonight. You know, that guy you like.” Arthur made a face. “Davey Zowie, or whatever his name is.”

  Kirsten squealed. “David Bowie! You managed to get tickets! Oh, Arthur, how did you do it? That concert was sold-out weeks ago.”

  Arthur looked smug. “Oh, I just found a scalper—”

  Suddenly Kirsten’s brain shifted into hyperdrive. The room seemed to collapse into a pinpoint of light and disappear, while her thoughts raced with nanosecond precision and silicon clarity.

  Scalper. Tickets bought unethically in blocks. Eager consumers deprived of their fair chance. Prices jacked up. Unhappiness. Unfair. What if everyone scalped? Chaos, despair, young girls slitting their wrists, Bowie finding out and feeling responsible, becoming too distracted to sing. Patronize a scalper? No!

  The whole process took less than a second. Kirsten came out of the intensely rational state, back to the noisy room. Wow, what had all that been about? She had never experienced anything like that before. She shook her head. Maybe she could just ignore it.

  Arthur studied her with puzzlement. “Aren’t you excited, Kirsten? Don’t you want to go?”

  Kirsten opened her mouth to say how glad she was, when a new sensation struck. It felt rather similar to constipation, only it was located directly behind the bridge of her nose.

  All at once, she found herself speaking without control.

  “Arthur, such behavior is reprehensible and not to be taken as a guide to universal conduct. You will return those tickets immediately. I want nothing to do with them.”

  Kirsten stood and began to stalk out of the cafeteria.

  After half a minute, Arthur recovered enough to pursue.

  “Kirsten, hey, wait a minute. I never thought you’d take it like this. I was just trying to make you happy. Those tickets cost fifty bucks apiece. Slow down a second, will you! Let’s talk.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. Get rid of those unethically purchased items at once.”

  “The scalper’s not gonna take them back, Kirsten. What should I do with them?”

  Stopping at a random table, Kirsten said, “Give them to these people. Your charity will nullify the original unethical act.”

  With trembling hands, Arthur took out the tickets. He looked as if he might cry. He eyed Kirsten imploringly, but her unrelenting face gave him no hope. He handed the tickets to the seated students, who had been watching the whole affair with amazement.

  “Hey, thanks, man,” one said. “Is this a promotion or someth
ing? Are you guys from a radio station? Will you say my name on the air?”

  “Just shut up,” Arthur said, then hurried after Kirsten, who was already outside.

  On the walk, Arthur caught her by the arm. “Okay, I did just like you said. Let’s forget I ever brought it up. Boy, a hundred dollars down the drain.”

  Kirsten halted. What had come over her? She put a hand to her forehead. It seemed to be over now.

  “I’m so sorry, Arthur. I—I can’t explain it.”

  “It’s all right. We’ll just have a quiet dinner at my place, like we do every Friday.”

  Arthur began to guide Kirsten home.

  By the wrought-iron campus gate, they came upon Johnny Z. Johnny was a bedraggled, burnt-out hipster who had been a fixture on campus for twenty years. He cadged loose change and beers from each passing generation.

  “Spare cha—” Johnny began.

  Before Arthur could stop her, Kirsten delivered a vicious kick to Johnny’s stomach, whereupon he promptly folded and collapsed.

  Arthur regarded Kirsten with fright.

  “People,” she said sternly, “should work for a living.”

  * * * *

  The lights were low in Arthur’s off-campus apartment. He and Kirsten sat side by side on the couch. During the evening, Kirsten had suffered no more of the strange attacks. Both she and Arthur felt relieved. Arthur, however, wanted to discuss the incidents. Nervous and feeling contaminated, Kirsten had not told him of the injection, and so his theories were hopelessly off the mark.

  “Could it be that PMS thing…?”

  “Oh, Arthur, just be quiet and kiss me.”

  Arthur knew when to comply.

  After a time even under Arthur’s inexpert caresses, Kirsten began to grow excited. She felt happy and relaxed, all the troubles of the day receding in the wake of a mellow sexual warmth. Surely no troublesome decision could lurk in this encounter—

  Without warning, Kirsten sat up straight and stiff as a frozen fish. Arthur fell back, arms folded across his stomach as if to ward off a foot.

  “Whatever it was, I didn’t mean it!”

  “Arthur,” Kirsten intoned like an automaton, “this issue of sex is one of the most complicated to objectively judge. On the one hand, intercourse outside of societal structures such as marriage is non-productive and not to be sanctioned, insofar as it tends to undermine the necessary social matrix. On the other hand, coitus remains a natural function, tending to contribute to both the mental and physical well-being of the individual, especially among males of your age-group. Therefore, I have decided that I will now proceed to have sex with you, but under no circumstance will I allow myself to enjoy it.”

  With this statement, Kirsten lay back, arms rigid by her side, her face a mask. “You may now undress me and continue what you were doing.”

  For just ten seconds, Arthur considered the matter.

  He made the sidewalk before the inner door even slammed.

  * * * *

  Kirsten stood in front of the door to Pennypacker’s office. A week had passed, and she was expected now to report.

  She hoped she had the strength.

  It had been quite a week.

  Kirsten had managed to alienate everyone she knew, teachers and friends, strangers and relatives, shopclerks and waiters, and, most of all, Arthur.

  She shuddered now to recall everything that had happened.

  A termpaper had arrived in the mail, ordered from one of the mills. She had been so happy, confident that now she would pass Chaucer. In amazement she had watched her willful hands rip it into shreds. Needless to say, her own efforts netted an F.

  Shopping with her best friend, Carol, she had been startled to see the other girl pocket a scarf in the department store, although only days ago, Kirsten might have done the same thing. The floorwalker was very eager to press charges, and Kirsten volunteered to testify. Carol had stopped crying long enough to swear at Kirsten, using words Kirsten would have sworn Carol didn’t know.

  And that awful altercation with the fat girl eating an extra-large pizza— Who could say why the girl had reacted so intemperately to a spontaneous lecture on the evils of gluttony, delivered in the packed restaurant? Kirsten was still removing mozarella from her hair.

  These events constituted merely the tip of the iceberg of embarrassment. She had done things that would never be forgotten. There were people now who fled from her on sight. And all because she had wanted a little extra cash.

  Kirsten sighed. She had thought long and hard about how she was going to extricate herself from this mess. Eventually, she had rejected the idea of turning in the two scientists to the authorities. They were the only ones who could restore her to herself. In the end, there seemed nothing to do but play along.

  Kirsten knocked, turned the handle and entered.

  Jearl and Pennypacker occupied the same positions as on that fateful day a week ago. They seemed to have been waiting patiently here for her, like fungus on a log. For a minute, she actually believed they lived in the office.

  Pennypacker rose eagerly to his feet. “Ah, Miss James. Word of your exploits have filtered back to us. It seems as if you have become living proof of the immortal Kant’s wisdom. No doubt your life has been revolutionized for the better, and you see no need to try Jearl’s serum.”

  “Wait just a minute now,” Jearl rumbled. “Let the girl speak her mind.”

  “It’s been revolutionized all right,” Kirsten said ruefully. “I don’t know about the better part. Anyway, it’s all in here.” Kirsten rummaged in her purse and found a small diary with clasp, which she tossed on Pennypacker’s desk. “I hope you don’t mind it’s not written real scientific like. I had a lot on my mind. And just skip over the first few pages. They’re private.”

  Pennypacker seemed disappointed at Kirsten’s lack of enthusiasm for his point of view. “We are engaged in a scientific trial here, Miss James. You may rest assured that we will hold everything in the strictest confidence.”

  “Okay, you’d just better. I don’t want Arthur or anyone else finding out my innermost secrets—if they still even care about me. Now, let’s get the second part of this over with.”

  Pennypacker spoke with resignation. “Jearl, I suppose you may administer your little cocktail now.”

  Jearl drew off some liquid from the black-labeled bottle. Kirsten closed her eyes.

  She felt the needle go in. Then something inside her sucked her consciousness down into a bottomless pool.

  * * * *

  Arthur sat in the cafeteria, moodily regarding his cup of Sanka. (Too much caffeine normally upset him, and lately, with Kirsten acting so bizarre, even one cup seemed like too much.) What could be wrong with Kirsten? She had changed so drastically in such a short time. This stern morality was so unlike her. Previously, her entire code of ethics had consisted of misquoting the Golden Rule. Was it something he had done? Perhaps it was a subtle comment on his own behavior. He supposed he could be something of a prig at times.

  Abandoning his unprofitable speculations, Arthur raised his cup, tilted back his head to sip, and—

  My God, what was that commotion by the door—?

  Kirsten burst in, trailed by a crowd of whooping students. Her blouse was ripped, hanging off one white shoulder. Somewhere she had lost her shoes. Her hair seemed charged with electricity, her eyes feverish. Breasts heaving, she moved like an animal. Lifting her face to the ceiling, she bellowed, “I am the Anima!”

  Arthur sprayed out a mouthful of coffee.

  Kirsten continued to address the sky. “Where is my soulmate? I must have him. He is the strong horse I will ride to ecstasy!” Kirsten scanned the cafeteria. Her eyes lit on Arthur. She regally raised a long arm to point. “He awaits me on his throne.” She began to advance, with a sinuous gait the likes of which Arthur had never seen.

  Arthur hastily scraped back in his chair, got to his feet. His knees felt weak and his stomach churned.

  “Uh, hi,
K—K—Kirsten. What a surprise.”

  “Discard words,” she said. “l am going to melt your spine with love.”

  The crowd’s hoots redoubled.

  Kirsten was almost upon him.

  “W—wait just a minute,” Arthur stammered desperately.

  Too late. Kirsten leapt.

  Somehow Arthur found himself off his feet. Kirsten had lifted him in a grip of steel. Now her feral face hovered inches from his. Her breath was hot, and she smelled of musk.

  “Prepare to know heaven,” she growled.

  Arthur fainted.

  * * * *

  Who would have ever thought the unconscious held so many archetypes? Certainly not the innocent Kirsten of old.

  What a varied lot they were!

  And so prone to surface with the slightest prompting.

  Take, for instance, the time the Wily Trickster persona had possessed her. That had been while she was trying to explain to campus security about the scene in the cafeteria. She had never evidenced any talent for ventriloquism before then. Despite her lack of practice, however, she had convincingly projected her voice so as to simulate a riot outside. When the rent-a-cops turned their backs, she had split out the window.

  After that, time seemed to pass confusingly, in a frenzy of events.

  Somehow, the Eternal Virgin had convinced an entire fraternity house of horny males to shelter her for two days, without laying a finger on her. When the police inexplicably learned of her whereabouts, the Noble Savage had helped her escape over the rooftops. After that, she had lived in the city’s parks for a week, stealing food from the concession stands and once even catching and roasting a squirrel. At last, the Naive Waif had enlisted the aid of an elderly couple, who had disguised her as their twelve-year-old grand-daughter and delivered her safely back to the campus. (Amazing how each persona seemed to mold her body accordingly!)

  Now she stood for the third time outside the office where she had met so much grief and trouble. Surely Pennypacker and Jearl could ask no more of her. She had co-operated to the max. Let them restore her old self now.