Dayworld

by Philip J. Farmer

  "That's no sweat," Paz said, perspiration sliding down his face. He walked out, saying over his shoulder, "Check in with me before you go, if you go."

  "Of course."

  He leaned back in the chair, eyes closed. Two minutes later, he got a call from Nokomis.

  "Have you got anything for me?"

  "Nothing yet, my dear. I'm swamped with urgent work. I really don't know when I can get to the you-know-what."

  She frowned and said, "I need the you-know-what as soon as possible. Otherwise, my God!"

  She rolled her large brown eyes and grimaced.

  "If it can be done, it will," he said.

  She told him that their seven o'clock dinner date would have to be changed to eight. The producer and the choreographer had gotten into a shouting contest, which had become a slapping match until they were pulled apart. Roger Shenachi, the star ballerino, had overdosed himself with a laxative and now, when he landed from a grand jetй, he became a pathetic, if laughable, spectacle as he ran off the stage.

  At another time, Tingle would have been amused by all this. He told Nokomis that he had to go, and he said good-bye. Tragedy and danger were stalking him, yet he was supposed to cluck-cluck over her trivia. He knew her well enough, however, to know that if he did not get her what she wanted he would have to endure not-so-mild reproaches.

  A half-hour later, after pacing back and forth in the office, he gave up on all the plans he could think of for finding Castor. What he needed was something to take his mind off the problem for a little while. Then he could attack it with a fresh attitude.

  He left the office, went to the urinal, and then went into Paz's office. Paz had a huge lunch, including a large steak, spread out on the desk before him. He looked at Tingle as if daring him to comment. Tingle looked away from the food and said, "I'm going out now. No, I don't have anything good for you. I need to exercise my body, not my mind. I'm going to the fencing gymnasium for a half-hour or so."

  "You wouldn't be doing it if you didn't need it," Paz said. "Very well. Only I hope you come up with something soon."

  "I like to overtake events, not have events overtake me," Tingle said. "But I'm afraid that just might happen. Then .

  I'll have to improvise like hell."

  "One has to be a good improviser," Paz said through a mouthful of steak. "But it's better not to have to. Call me every half-hour."

  Paz did not look worried; he looked guilty. Tingle bowed to him and left, thinking that his chief was too sensitive about his meat-eating. He, Tingle, did not care what Paz ate, though he wished he would not eat so much. Any day now, Paz's superior would have to ignore whatever influence Paz had used to pressure him, and she would force him to go on a diet. If that failed, he would be examined for, metabolic dysfunctions and either treated electrochemically or sent to a "fat farm."

  Tingle went on the elevator to the twentieth floor, walked down a corridor, and entered the anteroom of the fencing gymnasium. After warming up for ten minutes, he engaged in two matches with a woman and a man, neither of whom were immers or data bankers. He won both, which pleased him. But, during his shower, he began thinking again about Castor. Conclusion: Since the madman knew where he, as Caird, lived, he might also know where he, as Tingle, lived. The probability was strengthened because Tingle lived next door to Caird. Castor might have seen him coming out of the apartment building.

  Since there was nothing else to do, Tingle decided to be a decoy. Though he might be wasting his time, whatever he did could be a time-waster. Castor, however, was a fanatic. Hence, he was not one to burn time as if it were incense. He would be doing whatever he could to get Tingle unless he had some crazed plan that involved mentally torturing his chief prey. Who knew what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow was not the only one; God also knew. Actually, God was The Real Shadow.

  "But," Tingle muttered, "Castor is not really God."

  He went down to the Fifth Avenue exit, stepped out into the heat and hailed a cab. After getting in and telling the driver where to go, he inserted the tip of his ID star into the machine mounted on the back of the front seat. The driver scarcely glanced at the ID verification and credit rating displayed on the front panel. She had never been ripped off and did not expect to be.

  Tingle watched a news strip on the back of the front seat. The murder at Bleecker Street was not mentioned. It was evident that the government's hand was over the mouth of the media. There would be nothing more on the news about the event unless the government decided on a coverup story. So .

  Ozma had been killed, and today's authorities had decided that the public would not know about her. It might panic at the idea that another day's citizen could be destoned and killed.

  He shivered with cold at the vision of what might have been done, surely was done, to her by Castor. That was Tingle's reaction, however. If he were wholly Caird, he would have vomited.

  There was no point in trying to elude Snick. That would make her even more suspicious-if she suspected him. If she were not suspicious of him, she would be made so by his unroutine behavior. He would just go to his apartment and wait for Castor. Or perhaps wander around the neighborhood.

  The cab turned east from Fifth Avenue onto Washington Square North. Tingle, sitting on the right side, looked out across Washington Square. He said loudly, "Stop!"

  Startled, the driver said, "Huh!" She pulled over to the curb through the bicyclers. She turned around and said, "Changed your mind?"

  "We'll get going in a minute."

  Thirty feet south of the sidewalk was a large oak tree. Under its shade were some tables and chairs, all occupied by chessplayers. One of the intent garners was a stocky man in a black robe. His profile was aquiline, his eyebrows were enormously thick, and his red beard was long and uncut. On top of his red hair was a little black round cap called, if Tingle remembered correctly, a yarmulke.

  "Gril!" Tingle said. Or was it Caird speaking?

  For a minute, Tingle watched him. Gril seemed so unlike a fugitive from the law. If he was tensing for the inevitable hand on his shoulder, listening for the heavy footsteps, watching out of the corners of his eyes for the approaching shadows, he did not show it. Chess seemed to be his only concern. He watched the pieces as intently and motionlessly as a praying mantis who had just seen a caterpillar.

  Tingle was surprised that Gril had escaped arrest. And then he realized why the man had been free so long. The organics would be looking for someone like Gril but not too much like him. They would assume that Gril had shaved his beard, abandoned his yarmulke, stained his face darker and put on contact lenses of a color other than green. But crafty Gril had remained an obvious Orthodox Hebrew. His disguise was himself.

  "I'll just walk from here," Tingle said. He stuck the ID point into the hole so that he would have a record of the mileage to compare with that of the cab. If someone was tracking him, and that person questioned him later about his stopping there, Tingle would say that he had gotten out for exercise. That was the only excuse he could think of for leaving the cab. No, it was not. A chess enthusiast, he wanted to watch the players for a while. After all, he had played in Washington Square many times before. Some of Manhattan's best were there.

  Tingle strolled up to a table near Gril's and watched for a while. After stopping at another table, he went to his real destination. He felt a little strange looking into Gril's small green eyes. He was not recognized, yet he knew Gril well. Fairly well, anyway.

  He could not keep from glancing up through the branches. A sky-eye, if it was watching him, could not see him or Gril now.

  After a minute, during which neither player moved his pieces Tingle walked away. He had no reason to speak to Gril. The impulse to warn him had sped away, as it should. What was Gril to him, today, at least?

  He walked slowly through the shouting and screaming children at play, the mimes, the carts with nuts, fruit, and vegetables for sale, the vendors with their overhead cargo of brightly colored balloons, the
blaring soapbox orators baring their singularly singed psyches, the tumblers and acrobats, the magicians plucking rabbits and roses from the air, the unkempt and foul-mouthed barbs (Wednesday's minnies), and the always-there plainclothes organics. The latter had the indefinable but obvious-to him-expression they wore when among civilians.

  Seeing them made him suddenly aware of the weight of the weapon in his shoulderbag. If he were stopped for some reason and searched ... He shuddered. It was not wise to carry the gun with him. Yet he had to because he might find Castor.

  Thinking of Castor seemed to conjure him.

  Tingle faltered in his stride.

  First, Gril. Now, yes, there was no doubt about it.

  Castor was walking along fifty feet ahead of him on his right on a path that would meet his.

  He renewed his former pace. And he faltered again.

  To his left, about seventy feet ahead, also on a collision course, was a woman wearing a brown jockey cap and a brown robe decorated with green looped crosses. Her shoes were bright green.

  Snick.

  Chapter 13

  All things throughout the universe are connected, but things similar are more closely connected than others.

  Tingle, Gril, Castor, and Snick were more or less tightly bound together by the unlawful acts of three of them. And here they were, pulled together in Washington Square by what might be called the law of criminal gravity. They were like planets attracted by forces that, in this case, defied the statistics of probability. All, except Gril, falling toward a common center.

  However, human beings were not unconscious forms of matter like planets. They could decide to leave their orbits.

  Castor was the first to do so. Looking to his left, he saw Tingle. His eyes widened; his pace was checked. And then he ran. God does not run; He is all-powerful and fears nothing. Just now, however, He fled like a human, not like one who could float or fly or make Himself invisible or zap His enemy with lightning or a quick case of the creeping crud.

  His flight was a break for Tingle. Snick had turned to watch the tall thin Castor, a bipedal gazelle running as if a cheetah were after him. Knowing that Snick would turn to see who was chasing Castor, Tingle stepped behind an oak tree. While pretending to be relaxed, a loafer leaning against the trunk, he watched the plainclothes organics. Some of them had seen Castor, but they apparently thought that he was a jogger. Gril was still at the table.

  The expected shrilling from Snick's whistle did not come. The plainclothes kept their indifferent but subtly watchful attitudes. Unable to curb his curiosity any longer, Tingle peeked around the tree. Castor had vanished around one of the block buildings on West Fourth Street, south of the square. Snick had her back to Tingle, her hands on her hips, her head slightly cocked. He could visualize her look of puzzlement. Why in hell hadn't she had the conditioned reflex of all organics and pursued the man? Perhaps it was because she was on a mission and she was not going to deviate from it. The running man was no concern of hers.

  He groaned. Wrong again. Snick had started trotting south on Thompson Street. Presently, she turned right on West Third Street and was hidden by the building there. She was fcdlowing Castor.

  Tingle bit his lip, looked at Gril, who was still playing chess, and stepped out from the shade of the oak. The sun wrapped a smotheringly hot blanket around him, but he felt cold inside himself. What to do? He did not want to run into Snick because he did not want to be associated in her mind with Castor. In any event, he could account for his being here. His apartment building was only a few blocks away.

  He did not run, though he walked swiftly. If the organics in the square saw three people, one after the other, start running, they might be curious enough to investigate. On reaching the corner of the building at which Snick had turned on Thompson Street and West Third, he went around it, too. Neither the chased nor the chaser was in sight. When he got to Sullivan Street, he saw Snick, her back to him, going around the building on Bleecker Street. Since there was no one else on the street, he ran after her.

  Before getting to Bleecker Street, he slowed down. When he got to the corner building, he stopped and peered around it. Snick, now trotting, was just rounding the corner at MacDou gal Street. Evidently, Castor had gone north. Tingle ran west on Bleecker and stopped at MacDougal. He stuck his head around the corner until Snick had turned left onto Minetta Lane. Meanwhile, he was hoping that none of the neighbors would notice him and his curiosity-arousing behavior.

  Reaching Minetta Lane, he paused long enough to make sure that Snick was not in sight. He went west until he came to the house at the end of the block. Tingle hid behind a tree, his head out far enough from the trunk for one eye to see Snick. She was still trotting, her robe sticking to her back with sweat, on the canal road. He waited until she had gone around Jeff Caird's house on Bleecker before he stepped out from the tree.

  Tingle ran. The fishers, pedestrians, and bicyclists on the canal road stared at him. They must have thought he was crazy to run in this heat; they were crazy just to be out in it. Panting, sweat stinging his eyes, he stopped at the corner. Not seeing Snick, he stepped out from the fence onto the sidewalk. There she was. Entering the front of his apartment building. Castor must have gone into it. The main front and back entrances were usually left unlocked during the day. Castor had had no more trouble getting in than Snick was having.

  Tingle could not believe that it was just coincidence that the man had gone into that building.

  Paz had told him to call every half-hour. He was fifteen minutes late. No time to call now. But, as he started walking, he heard the shrilling from his wristwatch. He turned it off and held it close to his mouth. "Hello." Then he held the watch close to his ear.

  Paz's voice said, "I was worried. You didn't ..

  "I know. Call in."

  He sketched what had happened and told Paz that he was going to follow the two into the building.

  "Do you think that's wise?"

  "Just now, I don't know what's wise."

  "I can get two men down there fast and have them take care of Castor," Paz said. "You wait outside to make sure that he doesn't leave."

  "He may be going out the back door," Tingle said. He was running as he talked and was now alongside the building. "I'm headed that way now."

  He stopped at the corner and looked around it. Castor was not there, which meant that he was still inside the building or that he had run out of the back and out of sight. Tingle did not think that Castor had had time to do that. 'Moreover, he did not believe that Castor would go out into the open again. He would be waiting for Snick.

  While Tingle went up the steps to the back porch, he called Paz and told him the situation.

  "I have to go in. I don't want Snick to get hurt."

  "Why not? She could be as dangerous as Castor. Let him take care of her, then we'll get him."

  "Wedon't know that she's after me," Tingle said. "Any,'

  way

  There was a pause.

  "Anyway what?" Paz said sharply.

  "If people ... if there are witnesses ... then the organics will be there almost immediately. We don't want that, right?"

  "Are there people around?"

  "No one at the moment," Tingle said.

  "I think it's best you get out of there. Let my people handle this."

  "Is that an order?"

  Paz coughed and then said, "No. I'm not there. I don't know exactly ... I'm not on the spot. You have good judgment, Bob. You go ahead, do what you think the situation demands."

  "Doing," Tingle said. "I'm going in. Call you later."

  "Yes, but-"

  Tingle had turned off the transmitter.

  He pulled out his blouse, opened his shoulderbag, took the weapon from the bag, and stuck it into his belt. The bottom of the blouse covered the gun. He walked swiftly but softly down the hall to the wide curving steps leading to the second floor. The huge recreation room was empty, and no sounds from outside or inside reached h
im. The sweat was drying off his face under the coldness of the air-conditioning, but it seemed to be pouring out from his armpits. He stopped at the foot of the staircase and took his gun from the belt. It was heavy, weighing four pounds, and shaped like an archaic automatic pistol. In addition to the firing button, it bore two dials, one on each side just above the grip. He set its left-hand dial for a tight and narrow beam and the right-hand one for full power for the charged particles.

  He started up the stairs slowly, listening intently for any sound from above. Before he got to the top step, he crouched down. He raised his head quickly above the last riser but only far enough so that his eyes were level with the floor of the hall. He held the gun barrel up, its tip just by the lobe of his left ear.

  The hall was empty.

  He could wait outside the door of 2E until Snick or Castor came out. He did not know that either was in there, but he assumed that they were. He could be wrong. Castor might have fled to a higher floor or he might have gone down the back stairs and on out. Neither seemed likely, or perhaps he wanted Castor to he in his apartment with no way out. Whatever had happened, he had to check out his apartment.

  He stopped before his door and bent his knees so that he could look into the insertion hole. He saw nothing except darkness, which meant that Castor had not used his weapon to drill

  • a hole through the code device inside the door. He straightened up and inserted in the hole that tip of his disc-star which would transmit the entry code. He waited a few seconds, then pushed in on the door. It swung easily and noiselessly, stopping short of the inner wall by a foot. The anteroom and the hall beyond were empty.

  After going inside, he used the knob on the inside of the door to shut it quietly. He did not want anyone coming through behind him. During the next four minutes, he passed through every room swiftly but quietly, opened closet doors, and even looked under the bed, though he felt foolish doing so.

  Then he walked along the stoner cylinders, pausing at each to look carefully at the faces behind the windows. None was Castor's or Snick's. That left the two empties, his and his wife's. He had not gone close enough to look down to find out if anyone was crouching below the windows. He had, however, kept glancing at the cylinders behind him while checking out the others.