by Roger Elwood
“Oh, it’s, uh, okay I guess,” David managed to blurt out.
“What’s that?” Marston asked.
“Didn’t you ask me how I was?” Starke replied.
Marston looked at him puzzledly. “That was five minutes ago, pal. When it looked like you weren’t going to answer me I just went back to work.”
Starke held onto his desk with both hands. “Sorry,” he said. “1 guess I was just distracted. I feel a little odd today.”
“’S okay,” said Marston. He turned back to his papers, reached into a lower desk drawer and pulled out a battered pipe.
Starke pulled a computer printout from his own in-tray, dipped past the heading information and began to study the overnight machine printout on his new sort-and-retrieve model, series 10, Sarm-X. At least there had been a good machine run, he should be able to complete his development level study and begin a project report with Marston doing the tech writing and documentation half of the job.
Funny, thought Starke, his forehead on one hand as he scanned the columns of machine print. Funny that a man like Mel Marston should reach his place in the world, a documentation specialist in the computer works where all the others followed the corporate model by keeping their personal grooming neat as a pin, their manner sober as a judge, their dress conservative as a Nixon.
Marston looked a mess, showed more interest in poetry than in technical writing, was known as an off-hours drinker and didn’t even put much vehemence into his denial when someone suggested that he was a pot smoker. Yet, somehow, he had advanced to a responsible and well-paid position! Probably on the basis of sheer talent and competence, but it never ceased to leave Starke wondering.
He turned his attention back to the computer printout before him. The sort-and-retrieve program seemed to be working fairly well on the test information provided, an old company telephone directory sequenced by extension numbers. The calling sequence of the test specified abstracting all employees with six-, eight-, or eleven-digit last names ending in consonants from L to Z, then alphabetizing the names and printing them out.
Starke began to check the names: LAN DOR L E I LAPTIPPE FT I LAZZARRA AJ I LEACHPIT RP / LEACHPIT J F I LUTHER F X …wait a minute! LEACHPIT R P before LEACHPIT J F? The alphabetizing routine seemed to be shutting off after the surname, not continuing through the initials, else how could LEACHPIT R P come before LEACHPIT J F?
Starke reached for the telephone on his desk to check out the discrepancy with the linkage generator group in the next corridor, then decided to talk it over first with Mel Marston. He dropped the phone receiver back onto its cradle and said “Mel?”
The only reply was a muffled “Mph.”
Starke turned to look at Marston. Marston’s collar-length hair had grown the better part of a foot, flowing wildly over his shoulders. It was held away from his face by a woven, bead-decorated headband, a huge turquoise peacock feather rising from the middle of Marston’s forehead.
His small moustache and Vandyke had sprouted into a bushy, patriarchal beard.
His rumpled button-down shirt and tie had disappeared, replaced by a multicolored billowing shirt of some gossamer material over which hung a rawhide vest decorated with silver and blue jewels and leather fringes.
The blackened pipe that Marston habitually smoked at his desk had been transformed into a Persian hookah, its bottom a bubbling globe of water, its top an elaborate hammered-brass bowl filled with slowly charring shreds of something that Starke knew was not tobacco.
Marston turned to face Starke. He held a flexible tube toward him, one end connected to the hookah, the other ending in an ivory mouthpiece. As he leaned toward Starke he said, “Om.”
Starke gasped, shut his eyes as tightly as he could, pressed the heels of both hands to his temples and ground his teeth together. He held the posture for seconds while the syllable faded from his ears.
Then it came again, only instead of “Om” it sounded more like “Hum,” in Marston’s voice, delivered with the usual drawl but with a questioning inflection on its end.
Starke opened his eyes, turned toward Marston prepared for the sight of the bizarrely arrayed apparition he had just seen. Marston was back at his desk, his hair back to its usual length, his costume back to its rumpled but relatively conventional composition, the pipe in his hand its old self, the odor of tobacco permeating the air of the small office.
“Mel?” Starke said.
“What is it, Davey?”
“Why, I was going to show you these test run results but for a moment you…”
Marston waited, then when Starke didn’t resume, said, “For a moment I what?”
“You just looked a little odd, that’s ail.”
“Come on, Starke, you’re always after me about the old company tie and the old company white shirt. You know I’m not interested in that stuff.”
“Not what I meant, Mel, I mean you…Again Starke was unable to complete the sentence.
“Here, old chum, you’d better get it together a little more. Relax.” Marston pulled out his bottom desk drawer, drew a brown bag from it, pulled out a thermos bottle.
He trundled his chair toward Starke’s desk, unscrewed the stopper from the bottle and reached to refill Starke’s coffee cup. “Don’t see how you can drink that machine stuff anyhow,” he drawled. “But then I never did understand you computer people anyhow.” Marston laughed.
“Thanks,” Starke said. He lifted his cup, sniffed the steam rising from it and shot an odd glance at Marston. “There isn’t brandy in this stuff, is there?” he asked.
Marston shot back a look of mock surprise. “My innocence is deeply offended sir, We are all thoroughly familiar with the company drinking policy.”
Starke sipped at the coffee. “If this isn’t spiked then I’ve never tasted alcohol.”
“Even the walls have ears,” Marston said, turning slowly to study the perimeter of the room.
Starke shut his eyes until the thought went away.
“But look, Davey, you really seem upset. Is it that dumb Sarm-X program? You really shouldn’t let a little thing like a program bug get to you, you know.”
“No, it’s—something else. All morning I’ve been having, ah—odd things have been happening,” Starke finished weakly.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Starke pulled a fresh linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. He removed his glasses and began painstakingly to clean them, first the left lens, then the right, then the left again and the right again.
“Om,” said Marston; Starke looked quickly at him, saw the peacock-feather headband, the decorated vest. Or thought that he did, only fuzzily, with his spectacles in his hands. He slipped them back on, looked directly at Marston.
“Hm,” said Marston, his tie slightly askew and his pastel, button-down-collar shirt rumpled as usual. “Hm, I don’t think I quite understand what you mean, ah, by odd things happening. Sweet Angela didn’t jump up and buss you on the way in this morning, did she?”
‘
Starke felt his hands beginning to shake. A drop of cold sweat ran down the side of his neck. “I—I—”
“Say,” Marston drawled, “do you want me to take you to the dispensary? Is it—are you sick?”
“I don’t know. Maybe if I could—”
“How about Wally? You want to talk to the boss? Maybe you ought to check out for the day, go home and rest.”
“No, it’s—no, I have to work on Sarm-X, the deadline is almost here, we have to have the model running before the quarterly budget conference. I—Mars ton, tell me the truth.”
“Of course.”
“Latch the door first, will you?”
“Sure, David.” Marsten took the few steps to the door and clicked the security switch so no one could enter unexpectedly. “This is all mighty mysterious.” “You’re a good deal younger than I am, Mel, and I think you’re from a different school. More adventurous, less bound by tradition, willing to try
anything.”
“Not quite anything, but—?”
“What I mean is, ah—” He stopped, took to his glasses and wiped his forehead with the handkerchief again, then put his glasses back on. “I mean, with all the talk about drugs these past few years, I’ve never asked you if you’ve used them because it really isn’t my business, but, ah—”
“Yes?”
“Mel, what do you know about things like, ah, LSD?”
“Oh, why lysergic acid diethylamide, discovered April 19, 1943, by a chemist named Albert Hoffman—”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Oh. Sorry, Dave, that’s the only LSD that I’ve ever heard of. Maybe there’s another.”
“No, that’s the one I mean, the drug. I mean—ah, Mel, have you ever, ah taken, ah—”
“The term is dropped, Dave, and I’m afraid when you ask me that, you’re asking me if I’ve ever committed a felony, and I can hardly say yes to that, so suppose you ask me something else.”
“What I mean is, ah, LSD is supposed to cause hallucinations.”
“I’ve read the literature, it does say that, yes.”
“Well don’t be angry, Mel, but that coffee—you poured some for me yesterday and I thought it had a little funny taste.”
“The literature says LSD has no flavor. Or so I’ve read.”
“Don’t play games, Mel. This is a serious matter!” Starke was sweating heavily now. His glasses had been steamed by the coffee Marston poured for him. He whipped them off and used them to point directly at the younger man. “I want to know if you put any of that stuff in the coffee you gave me. I don’t care what you want to smoke or drink or stick in your veins, but I don’t want anybody, ah, anybody—”
“I think the term you’re looking for is dosing you, Dave. It has been known to happen, but most folks consider it unethical.” He drew out the last word, giving each syllable separate emphasis. “I would never do such a thing. Assuming that I had any of that stuff to start with, of course, which I haven’t said I do.”
“Well I, ah—”
Seriously Marston said, “I give you my word, David. I’ve never dosed anyone in my life. Maybe I do put a tiny drop of brandy in the java some mornings, but that’s the utter limit of it! Look!” And he put the thermos to his lips and drank.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Starke said, “but I’ll take your word. All right, then I wasn’t drugged. Then what’s going on?”
Marston restoppered the thermos, slipped it back into its bag and put it back into his desk. “You tell me, David. Is it all right if I unlock the door now?”
“I’m not sure. Oh, unlock it, certainly. I mean, I’m not sure what’s going on. I was—this morning I thought I saw Roily Poletsky’s car before it arrived at my house.”
“Trivial.”
“And there were B-52s over the city.”
“Oh?”
“And then the security man at the main gate—”
“What about him?”
“He was—he was—” Stark gulped once, “I could have sworn that he was Boris Karloff.”
“Dead for years.”
“In his Frankenstein makeup.”
“Come off it, Davey.”
“And then when I looked at you before I could have sworn you were dressed like some kind of hippy.”
“I don’t go for the white shirt dark suit thing but I’d hardly call these clothes hippy,” Marston said, hold-fingertips to his shirt front.
“No, I know you’re not dressed any different from usual,” Starke said. He looked at Marston. “You’re dressed the way you always dress. But you looked different.”
“Man, you are seeing things.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I can’t figure out why. I thought maybe you had, ah, dosed me with LSD,” he said. He felt uncomfortable using the unfamiliar term.
“Nope.”
“Then I guess I’m just cracking up!” Starke put his head in his two hands. “I’m just cracking up. I don’t know why, I haven’t been under any unusual strain, I feel normal. At least I felt normal until this morning. Now, all of a sudden, hallucinations. Why?”
“Not Sarm-X? Problems at home? Getting along okay with Wally Cheng?”
“None of those things. At least, I don’t think it’s any of them. I—I just don’t know.”
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t do much for you right now, old friend.” Marston standing, gave Starke’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “I’ve got one of those ridiculous meetings of all the documentation people. Wally asked me to give ’em a pep talk on the use of the subjunctive in discussing possible program errors, exciting stuff like that. Look, that’s scheduled to break up by noon. You want to have lunch together? We can eat in the cafeteria or go out into the real world and grab something at Enzo’s or at the Golden Garter.”
Starke stared straight ahead, silently.
“How about it, David?”
He shook himself back from the moment of fugue. “Uh, yes, thanks a lot. I mean, uh, sure, I think it would be a good idea. To get away for a little while, that is.”
Marston picked up a clipboard from which flapped a mass of yellow-lined note paper and left the room.
Starke worked over the Sarm-X test results the rest of the morning receiving a few phone calls, making a couple. He looked at his wristwatch every few minutes. He felt jumpy and worried, but managed to keep his mind on the programming project and experienced no further hallucinations.
At twelve o’clock Marston walked back into the office, dropping his clipboard on top of his cluttered desk. The clatter jolted Starke alert. “Aargh!” said Marston. “Maybe those people know something about data processing, but how they ever got past junior high school without learning to write a simple sentence is just beyond me.”
He slumped into his chair, then sprang upright almost immediately. “Come on, Dave, let’s go scarf down some grub!”
They made it outside and into the chill winter noontime. The sky was as gray as ever and a light sprinkling of snowflakes were falling. Starke wished he had wom his topcoat that morning. He and Marston broke into a trot as they crossed the company parking lot. As they passed the security guard’s booth Starke steeled himself and cast a look at the guard: he was an ordinary man, middle-aged, black, with a neatly trimmed moustache and a neatly pressed olive uniform.
Across the street from the computer works the red and blue electric signs in Enzo’s front window flashed on and off, throwing long, rippled reflections across the blacktop roadway wet with melting snow. Inside the restaurant Starke blew out the cold, wet air of the short walk from, the programming center and drew in the warm, organic odors of wood and leather, hot food and human bodies.
They took the only empty booth in the room, nodding to other workers taking their lunch away from the computer works, ordered sandwiches for their meal. Starke called for coffee to go with his. Marston ordered beer.
“You just love to flaunt your independence, don’t you, Mel?” Starke said to him.
Marston grinned a self-satisfied grin. “I figure, they pay me to edit a bunch of stuff and to write a little of my own. I figure as long as I do a good job, they have no gripe with me, and any time I do a bad job, they can squawk.”
Starke shook his head and sipped black, steaming coffee.
For ten minutes they munched silently on their sandwiches; Starke deliberately let his eyes fall into a steady, almost hypnotic pulsation along with the neon flashers: red, blue, red, blue. The room was cozy and familiar. For the first time since leaving home that morning he began to feel comfortably relaxed.
Again his mood was broken by Marston. “Figuring out your little puzzles, David?”
“Huh? Oh, no, I wasn’t really thinking about anything.”
“You really surprise me, you know? There are brigades of weirdos in this business, God knows, but you’ve always struck me as totally stable—the last guy I’d expect to flip out.”
Starke did not answer.
“Not that you’re exactly running berserk, pal.”
Starke laughed bitterly. “You’re right about that. I always thought I’d come to work one morning and hear that you’d been carted away. Never thought I would!”
“But I—” he made a helpless, appealing gesture with both his hands “—I feel perfectly normal. A little nervous about the whole thing, but I’m in control of myself, my thought processes seem normal, I’m not in a state of schizophrenic confusion or anything, I’m not frothing or screaming or attacking anybody with a knife.”
He picked up the sharp, wooden-handled knife beside his plate, held it up for a moment, then dropped it handle first to the wooden tabletop.
“I mean, can you be crazy,” he paused, “in just one very particular way, like seeing hallucinations, and be perfectly normal in every other regard? Maybe I had a stroke. Maybe I ought to go to the doctor.”
Marston replied, “If you think so. You don’t seem crazy to me, though.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a package of cigarettes. “You still off tobacco?” Starke nodded. Marston lit a cigarette. “Look, maybe if you try and think back to each, ah, anomaly, you’ll be able to see a pattern in them. Do you think so?” Starke considered for a minute. “Well, I was standing in the street waiting for Roily and I saw him driving up. Or thought I saw him. Then his car disappeared and actually arrived a minute later.”
“So you just anticipated what actually happened, right?”
Starke nodded.
“The second thing,” he said, “was in the car. I looked up in the sky and thought I saw bombers over the city, then I thought I saw the city being destroyed.”
Marston held his cigarette before himself and concentrated on its glowing tip. “Hmm. That sounds completely different. We know the city wasn’t destroyed, we’d certainly have found that out by now. And there probably weren’t even any bombers. Back at the office you said they were B-52s and there aren’t any more B-52s.”
“Okay, I’ll buy that. Then what happened?”
Marston grinned. “I-da-know,” he drawled, “maybe if you try and remember what you were doing or thinking just before you saw them…”
