Dayworld

by Philip J. Farmer

  When he got into bed, he expected that sleep would be slippery, but he got hold of it at once and slid into a throng of dreams.

  Awakening when the wall-strip alarm belled, he remembered only one of the dreams that had besieged him. Father Tom's face, his own, of course, recognizable even under the wig and the fake beard, had appeared on a wall strip. The strip showed Father Tom standing on the near side of a broad, dark, and sluggishly moving river. Just beyond Father Tom was a massive stone bridge. Father Tom held in his right hand a heavy iron candelabrum with seven candles. It looked like those used in synagogues, but Tingle could not remember its name. A long bright flame was spurting from the long finger of Father Tom's right hand. Father Tom was frowning as if he could not decide which candle to light.

  "This is the moment," Father Tom said sternly.

  Tingle had woken up muttering, "Moment of what?"

  He had slept for six hours, though he usually required eight. He put on shorts and went down to the basement, where he exercised in solitude on a machine. Returning to the apartment, he showered again, dressed, and drank a cup of coffee. By then the sun was strong, the city astir, and the temperature was beginning to climb toward the projected afternoon high of 112° Fahrenheit. Tingle, dressed in thin underwear shorts, a white short-sleeved shirt slashed in green and ruffled at the neck, Kelly-green bellbottom slacks, and brown sandals, his bag on his shoulder, stood once more on the balcony. He was looking at the neighborhood for ... for what? Doctor Chang Castor?

  Which meant that he was not entirely Tingle. Jeff Caird still lived in him. He was reminding Tingle that he was supposed to contact his immer agent in Wednesday. That would have to be done from the data bank, however.

  At the moment there was only one person in front of the house at the corner of Bleecker and the Kropotkin Canal. A man on a bicycle pedaling west, his back to Tingle. A big green coolie hat shaded his neck, and he wore a brown shirt and billowy green slacks. Tingle watched the man stop at the corner and turn his head to look behind him.

  Tingle said, "God!" He clenched his hands and stepped out farther onto the balcony. The face under the hat had Castor's long narrow features and rather large nose. And why was he looking so intently at the house?

  Tingle shook his head and spoke loudly to himself.

  "It's just your imagination! He wouldn't be dumb enough to do that!"

  Whatever that meant. Danger for Ozma?

  The man turned his head, allowing Tingle a glance at his profile. It was like the vulturine face of Castor, but ... No, it could not be Castor.

  The bicycler disappeared behind the house as he went north on the canal road, appeared again, then vanished behind the next house. A man stepped out of the back door of the corner house and went to the garage. Presently, he came out with a bicycle. Tingle recognized him as John Chandra. Tingle knew well his face and that of his wife, Aditi Rotwa, having seen them through the stoner windows in the basement. He stepped back so that Chandra would not look up and see him.

  Even if his neighbor noticed the likeness of his face and that of Jeff Caird's in the basement stoner, he would think only of what a remarkable coincidence it was. Tingle waited until Chandra had disappeared behind the house before he stepped out again to look for the bicycler. By then, he was gone.

  "Just my nerves," Tingle muttered.

  Three minutes later, he was headed east, a part of a flow of cyclists and an occasional electric car. He had just begun to sweat when he saw out of the corner of his eye a banana peel on the sidewalk.

  Chapter 10

  He zigzagged through the crowd, braked by the curb, kicked the stand, picked up the peel, and dropped it into a waste container. When he went back to the bike, he looked around. He did not see Rootenbeak and really did not expect to. There were other slobs besides Rootenbeak in Wednesday-if he was here. Nevertheless, he was shaken, and, as he pedaled away, he rebuked himself for his automatic action. He should not have stopped; he should have gone even faster.

  At Thirtieth Street, he went up the ramp and rode until he came to the west side, the dark side, of the Thirteen-Principles Towers. The building, which was covered with solar panels, occupied the area bounded by Seventh, Fourth, Thirtieth, and Thirty-seventh. The main structure soared up to four thousand feet, and the thirteen towers along its perimeter added fourteen hundred feet. Tingle's office was near the top of the tower on the northwest corner at Seventh and Thirty-seventh.

  After riding down the ramp to the parking room on the third subfloor, he took an elevator to the northwest main lobby. From there, he rode in the express to the level at the top of the main building. Then he took an elevator to his level in one of the towers.

  While walking down the hall leading to his office, Tingle was distracted by the view through the tall and wide windows on his right. There were six mooring masts on the roof of the main building, three zeppelins socked into three masts, and a fourth glittering orange giant was easing its nose toward a mast. Tingle stopped to watch the thing of beauty and splendor.

  There were powerful updrafts alongside this building, but the zeppelins came down past them into the relatively still air over the immense roof where they had no trouble maneuvering. Moreover, they needed no landing crews to pull on ropes dropped from the ship. The pilot had at his control twelve swivable jet engines that could counterbalance any wind-thrusts. Slowly, the ship approached the socket at the top of the mooring mast, and then its nose was locked.

  Tingle would have liked to watch the stoned passengers, safe from accidents and tedium, packed in nets, lowered to trucks. A glance at his wristwatch showed him that it was almost time for his prework briefing with his boss. He entered the office anteroom, where the secretary sat at his desk. The secretary looked pained and mournful, as if he had a hangover. Tingle breezed by him, saying, "Good morning, Sally!"

  Hearing only a grunt, Tingle called back, "Surly, Sally?"

  The secretary said, "Good morning, Maha Tingle. Maha Paz is ... ',

  "I know, I know. Eagerly, perhaps impatiently, waiting for me. Thank you."

  The office was dome-shaped and elegantly furnished, like the man behind the desk. Welcome Vardhamana Paz rose to his full seven feet of stature. His glittering many-colored blouse and trousers strained to hold in a ball-shaped torso and mighty buttocks. Above three chins, sagging dewlaps, was a round head with a massive overhanging forehead. When he bowed and held his hands in a prayerful attitude, he gave the impression of laboring to lift his many rings. There were two on each finger, each ring bearing a massive diamond or emerald. The gold was fake, and thejewels were artificial, and Paz looked unreal to Tingle. That was probably because fat.. and misshapen people were so rare.

  Tingle, after bowing, his hands held up before him and pressed together, said, "Good morning, chief."

  "Good morning, Bob."

  Paz lowered himself slowly and gently like a balloon losing hot air through a small leak. He told Tingle to take a chair, and he said, "For others it's a good morning. For you and me ..

  "Twinkledigits," as he was called behind his back, waved his walrus-flipper hand. His face contorted as if he had eaten too many beans.

  "I got the news about your troubles ... our troubles through our line."

  Tingle shifted uneasily and looked around the room. He would feel very stupid if he asked Paz if the room had been debugged and a scrambler was operating. Of course, it had been and was. Also, three news strips were on, the volume annoyingly loud.

  Tingle moved the chair until his stomach cut into the edge of the desk, and he leaned forward.

  "You heard from Tony?" he said.

  "No. Someone else."

  "Rootenbeak and Gril are not my concerns, not today. But Castor ... I suppose your informant told you how dangerous he is to us?"

  His jowls flapping like sheets in a wind, Paz nodded.

  "A certain high organic is looking for Castor. But he's handicapped because he can't do anything official as yet. If he had gotten
official word from Tuesday that Castor was a daybreaker, he could act swiftly. But he'd have to kill Castor to prevent his arrest. We can't have him talking to the authorities."

  Though Tingle was not supposed to know the name of the man Paz referred to, he did. His data bank researches, unauthorized by both today's government and the immer council, had revealed it.

  "We must find Castor," Paz said.

  "I'll work like a beaver on it," Tingle said.

  "What're you smiling about?" "Nothing. Just a pun."

  "Pun? What pun? This is no time for levity, Bob."

  "The American beaver belongs to the genus Castor canadensis," Tingle murmured.

  "What?"

  "Never mind," Tingle said, speaking loudly. "Chief, I'll have to set up fake time on my work-hours report. But my immediate supervisor, Galore Piecework, is too zealous. She almost always checks on my report."

  Paz frowned and said, "Galore Piecework?"

  "Gloria Peatsworth. We underlings call her Galore Piecework."

  Paz did not smile.

  "I told you, Bob. Levity ..

  "... is a grave matter. I know, chief. Please forgive me."

  Paz heave-sighed, and he said, "I'll take care of Peatsworth. But ... "

  After a few seconds, Tingle said, "You've got even worse news?"

  "You're very perceptive, Bob."

  Paz sighed deeply again, and he said, "My informant told me that there's a Sunday organic here. A Detective-Major Panthea Pao Snick. She has a temporal visa, Bob. A temporal!"

  "And it concerns us, of course. Otherwise, you'd not have mentioned her."

  "I'm afraid so," Paz said. "From what my informant said-he wasn't able to get any details that would enlighten me- Snick's mission is so secret that only the commissioner-general knows what it's about. And maybe he doesn't know all. The commissioner's given orders that Snick's to get full cooperation. It sounds ominous. We have to find out what she's up to."

  "She may not be here because of us."

  Paz sighed again.

  "I wish I could think so. Unfortunately, she's already asked about you. In fact, she wants to talk to you."

  It would be impossible to be all-Tingle today. Tuesday would not stay silent. It demanded that Tingle at least be Jeff Caird's agent. That was all that Tingle was going to allow himself to be. Caird had to be regarded as someone who had temporarily employed Tingle to represent him in Wednesday.

  Tingle said, "I may have to work overtime."

  "I'll authorize it. No sweat."

  Tingle grinned because Paz's face was filmed with salty water.

  The reason given for overtime would be one more coverup. Lies bred lies, and their growing weight put immense stress on what they were supposed to ease.

  Paz's cough sprang Tingle from his reveries. "Do you have anything to add?" Paz said. Tingle rose and said, "No. If that's all ..

  "Yes. If anything important comes along, notify me."

  "Of course."

  Tingle was biting his lip when he left the office. As he walked down the corridor, he felt bladder pressure. Halfway down the corridor, he turned right into a doorway above which was a sign: P & S. The anteroom gave onto a large room with off-white pseudomarble walls, ceiling, and floor. On his left was a long row of urinals above each of which was a strip displaying news programs. On his right was a row of cubicles from which came the muted voices of newscasters and soap opera actors, the flushing of a toilet, and groans.

  After looking along the unoccupied row, he chose a urinal in front of Channel 176. John "Big" Fokker Natchipal, its daytime caster, was a man whom Tingle detested. Thus, while he stood there, Tingle could imagine himself urinating on the ever-egregious Natchipal. Four screens away was the channel on which the fantastically beautiful and sexy Constant Tung delivered the news. But he had given up watching her-at least, in toilets-because he usually got an erection and that made it hard (no pun intended) to pee.

  However, this time his choice of station did not help him. He could hear her voice faintly, and that was enough to keep him thinking about her. While standing exasperated and frustrated, he became aware that someone was standing a few feet to his left. He turned his head toward her. She was wearing a brown jockey cap on which was a green circle enclosing a red star and a brown robe decorated with small green crux ansatas, looped Egyptian crosses. Her shoulderbag was large, green, and jammed full. Bright green shoes thrust their pointed snouts from under the hem of the robe.

  She was short, about five feet eight inches high, slim, and had short black hair gleaming like seal's fur. Her face was delicateboned, high-cheeked, and triangular. Her large dark brown eyes-also reminding him of a seal's-stared at him. Though as beautiful as Tung, she did not have the same effect on him. Her rudeness made him angry.

  "Yes?" he said.

  Before she could answer, a woman entered, waved at Caird, said, "Good morning, Bob," and disappeared into a cubicle.

  "I'm sorry to disturb you here," the woman said in a husky but rapid voice, "I didn't want to wait outside. I don't like to waste time."

  "Who are you, and what can I do for you?" he said harshly.

  Embarrassment and anger had deflated his penis, but he still was unable to urinate. He said, "I give up," and he zipped his pants. He strode angrily to the washbowl while the woman followed him.

  She said, "I'm Detective-Major Panthea Pao Snick. I -"

  "I know who you are," he said, looking at her in the mirror. "My superior, Colonel Paz, told me about you. He said-"

  "I know. I came into his office a few seconds after you left it." He walked to the hot-air blower and punched its button. She followed him, saying, "I'm authorized to give only a minimum explanation about my mission. But I can and will demand full cooperation."

  That meant that the North American Superorganic Council was backing her. Or that she was claiming more authority than she had because she could then get full cooperation. Tingle, as Caird, had done that more than once. However, he did not intend to call her bluff, if it was one. If she was sent by the NASC, she could be investigating rumors or suspicions or, he hoped to God not, facts about the immers. But, whyever she was here, it was not just to pass the time.

  Fear groped around in his guts for a handle.

  Chapter 11

  Snick said, "I want to talk to you privately."

  Just as the blower went off, he said, "We can't use my work-office. I doubt you're authorized to go in there."

  He started walking toward the exit. Dogging him, she said, "I'm not, though I could be. But that's too much trouble. Ijust want a few minutes where no one can hear us."

  He stopped and turned in the hall. Her big brown eyes looked into his as if she were trying to read something in them. They were very beautiful eyes, he thought, unfitted to an organic officer. Or perhaps they were appropriately inappropriate. She could throw a man off guard with them. Who could believe that there was steel behind their softness?

  He told her that they could talk in a lounge just down the hall. She walked with him, her legs moving swiftly to keep up with his long and quick stride. He did not slow down. If she was so intent to save time, she could trot for all he cared. His own time was also important.

  The lounge was deserted. He seated himself in a big comfortable body-molding chair. Snick took a chair, which deflated a few inches to accommodate her shorter legs. She was facing him across a narrow table.

  "Just what do you want from me?" he said. He glanced at his watch.

  "Don't you want my identification?"

  He waved his hand. "Colonel Paz told me that you wanted to talk to me."

  He intended to get all the data he could about her when he got to his office, but he wished to give her the impression that he was not curious about her.

  She took from her shoulderbag a small green box and put it on the table. She raised the screen, punched a button, and inserted the tip of the star on the ID disc into the box. He read the display, which showed on both sides o
f the screen, looked at her photo on the screen, and said, "OK. So you're who you say you are."

  "I've been authorized to track down a daybreaker. A citizen of Monday and of Manhattan, Yankev Gad Gril. A doctor of philosophy who teaches at Yeshiva University, an Orthodox Hebrew, a chessmaster, and a specialist in the works of a first-century A.D. Gnostic Christian called Cerinthus."

  For a moment, he thought about denying any knowledge. Her statement had been so far from what he had expected, though he really did not know what to expect, that it had numbed him.

  "Gril!" he said. "Oh, now I see why you want to talk to me! I play chess with him. But my contact has been limited, of course. I don't know what he looks like, and we've never spoken to each other. Intertemporal chess competition has very strict rules."

  She nodded. "I know. However, Gril is now in Wednesday, or at least we think he is. He's a passionate chessplayer, a fanatic ..

  "And a great one, too," Caird said. and he may continue his games with you. I don't think he'd be stupid enough to do that, but his passion for it may override his good sense. He might believe that he could transmit his next move to you from a public strip and then get away quickly. I said 'might,' but, actually, he has a good chance of eluding the organics here. If we don't get an immediate report, we can't get a satellite fix on him."

  "You want me to report to you or the organics the moment I get his transmission? If I do?"

  "Report to me. It may do no good because Gril can set up a delay in transmission and be long gone by the time you get it. But report anyway. Oh, by the way, you haven't already gotten one from him, have you?"

  A trick question. No doubt, she had had Bob Tingle's calls checked.