Science Fiction Originals Vol 3 Part 28

His mind swirled like the clouds that exited the elevator with him on the eleventh floor. For a few brief moments, as he made his way through a series of doors to find the hallway that held the residents'

apartments, he entertained the possibility of filling at least twenty orders.

At the very first door he knocked on, a pleasant-looking older man answered. Slackwell took a deep breath in order to launch into his spiel, but found the dope he'd smoked had robbed him of words. Instead, he started laughing.

The man at the door smiled, and said, "Can I help you?"

"I'm selling something," said Slackwell.

"Shall I guess what it is?"

"Organic computing."

The customer's look changed slightly but he continued to smile. "I see," said the man. "Brains in a jar?

I've heard of it."

"More than that," said Slackwell. "Much more."

"Let's see it do its thing," said the man. He stepped aside and let the salesman in.

The apartment was s.p.a.cious and perfectly clean. A large window offered a view of the city. The man was obviously learned, because there were two huge bookcases filled with weighty volumes. Beautiful old paintings depicting religious scenes hung on the walls. It was clear to Slackwell from his training that this would be the type of customer who might balk at the usual bullying tactics. A smooth and reasoned delivery was called for in this situation, and he was high enough at the moment to believe he was the man for the job.

They sat, each in a comfortable arm chair, at a small marble coffee table on which Slackwell rested his case. As he went through the operation of removing the unit, he laid down a spiel as smooth as a frozen lake.

Having read the scene and taken in the surroundings-the customer's cardigan, loafers and designer b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt the same color as his socks-he tried to punctuate his message with as many erudite words as he was capable of.

"You see, sir... what is your name again?" he asked.

"Catterly," said the man.

"You see Mr. Catterly, there is no need for a man of your obvious intelligence to forbear the rigitudes of laboring under the present inadequate computing systems that now run the devices of your apartment and give you access to the internet. There are bothersome b.u.t.tons to be pushed, dials to be set, and the response time of all of this outdated equipment is regrettable, to say the least. Here is a system that will actually think for you. It will swiftly learn what it is you want, and one simple voice command from you is all it takes to make any changes."

Slackwell opened the hinged panel and took out the 256-B. "Feast your eyes on this unit," he said.

"A human brain," said the man. He peered in at it through the gla.s.s and his smile disappeared.

"Awe inspiring, isn't it?" asked Slackwell. "And best of all, it can be brought to consciousness if you require company as well as computing ac.u.men."

Mr. Catterly shook his head and softly whistled.

"Granted, it takes a little getting used to."

Slackwell watched as his customer slowly stood. For a moment, he thought he was about to be shown the door.

"I'll be right back," said Catterly. "Make yourself comfortable." He left the living room by way of a hall leading off to the left.

"Going to find the old checkbook," Slackwell whispered and for the first time that day his foot stopped hurting. He quickly got the unit up and running, using the battery setting that made it portable.

"You aren't from Lindrethool, are you?" Catterly called from down the hall.

"No," Slackwell replied.

A few minutes pa.s.sed and then he heard the man's voice from just the other side of the living room. "Thenyou wouldn't know who I am."

Slackwell looked up from his task, and saw the old man transformed, wearing green and white robes laced with gold. He had on a tall pointed hat the shape of a closed tulip and carried in his hand a pole with a curved end.

"Oh, Christ," said Slackwell at the sight of him, knowing instantly he was in trouble.

"Not quite. I'm Bishop Catterly of Lindrethool," said the man and his once calm smile turned ugly as his face reddened and trembled. "Blasphemy," he yelled and lunged across the room, bringing the shepherd's crook up over his head.

Slackwell roused himself from paralysis at the last moment and stood arched over so that his body covered the unit. That pole came down across his spine with a whack, and it was all he could do to support himself with his knuckles on the table top. He staggered into a standing position, the pain bringing tears to his eyes and radiating down to his heels.

The Bishop was raising his weapon for another strike. "Release this soul," he said. But Slackwell had been sorely abused enough for one day. As he reached out and grabbed the crook with his left hand, he brought his right fist around and punched Catterly square in the jaw. The old man's high hat fell off. He took two steps backward and then just stood there, dazed. His bottom lip was split and blood trickled down across his chin.

Slackwell quickly packed the unit up. When Catterly moved again it wasn't to take another swing at the merchandise. Instead, he fell to his knees, dropped the crook and folded his hands in prayer. A long low burp issued from his open mouth and then he began weeping.

"You d.a.m.n kook," said Slackwell, putting on his derby. He made for the door and escaped into the hallway.

3.

Slackwell sat in a booth at the back of an establishment called The Bog. He sipped a beer, an appetizer for the main course of bourbon that would come later back at his hotel room. He lit a cigarette off the candle in the middle of the table and watched from the corner of his eye as some young professionals at the bar pointed at his hat and laughed. He'd have taken it off, but every time he moved any part of his body, his back screamed with pain. There wasn't much more he could manage other than drinking and smoking. Earlier, as he limped quickly away from the Thornwood Arms, grunting with each step, his heart racing, mind spinning with fear of Catterly calling the police or sending out his religious minions, a palpable sense of doom eddied about his head like a personal, portable storm cloud. Somewhere between his second and third beer the urgency of that terror had fizzled into a blank apathy.

He drank and wondered why he had always had jobs with stupid hats. Then Merk showed up and took the seat across from him. The older man was outright smiling, which was unusual, and his gray eyes had somehow lightened to blue.

"O.K., how many?" asked Slackwell.

Merk held up four fingers and laughed. "Signed orders for four and an almost certain fifth with a promise of full payment in cash when I return tomorrow. How'd you do?"

"Let's see," said Slackwell, taking a drag of his cigarette, "a woman smashed my toe with a hammer and Bishop Catterly of Lindrethool whacked me on the back with his holy stick. Other than that, it was a lousy day."

"The Bishop of Lindrethool?" asked Merk as he held one finger up to the waitress to order a beer.

"He wanted to release the soul of the floater."

"Slack, Slack, Slack," said Merk, "there is no Bishop Catterly of Lindrethool."

"What do you mean?" asked Slackwell.

"I know," said Merk and reached into his s.h.i.+rt and pulled out a religious medallion he wore on a chain.

"The only Bishop in this country is in Morgan City, and his name's not Catterly. The guy must have been deranged."

"Good," said Slackwell, "because I clocked him."

Merk shook his head. "Is the unit all right?"

Slackwell nodded. "If you're religious how can you peddle brain? I thought there was a flap about that in the church."

Merk downed the beer that arrived in one long drink. He held his finger up to the waitress again and then lit a cigarette. "Because," he said, "between heaven and h.e.l.l there is this place called reality. Reality might as well be h.e.l.l if you don't have cash. Granted, it's a grim business, but I'm good at it."

"Why is that?" asked Slackwell.

"Because," said Merk, "I understand the human brain. It's a double edged sword. An evolutionary development that gives you the wherewithal to know that life is basically a s.h.i.+t pastry one is obliged to eatslowly and the ability to disguise that fact with beautiful delusions."

"Where do G.o.d and the cash come in?" asked Slackwell.

"The cash is the pastry part. G.o.d, he just likes to watch us eat. The more we eat the more he loves us.

You can't live without love."

"Well," said Slackwell, wincing and grunting as he hoisted himself out of the booth, "I've lost my appet.i.te."

He took some bills out of his wallet and dropped them on the table. With a small moan, he lifted his case off the bench. "Coffee tomorrow?"

"On me," said his colleague. "Float easy, Slack."

Outside, the wind was blowing hard and tiny black tornados of soot caught sc.r.a.ps of litter up in their gyres for a moment, promising flight, and then dropped them. The streets of Lindrethool were nearly empty and the place seemed to Slackwell like a ghost town he had recently visited in a nightmare. He stopped in at a liquor store for a bottle, a deli for a sandwich, and then crept back to his Hotel, aware of nothing but the weight of the case in his hand.

Once back at the room, he had a couple of drinks and took a hot bath. Sitting at the scarred table, surveying the night scene of Lindrethool again, he smoked the other half of the joint he had started in the freight elevator of the Thornwood Arms. In no time, he was out beyond the blue and the emptiness of his mind began to fill with memories. Before he could stop himself, he started thinking about his wife and how he had not been home for years. He wondered, after all of the grimy cities he'd been through if Ella was still waiting for him to return a success. For a brief moment, he entertained the thought of calling her, but then pulled himself together.

"Get with it, Slackwell," he said to his reflection in the window. "Go down that path and you'll have the belt around your own neck quicker than you can say, Johnny." He stood up slowly, the pain in his back now deadened by the drink and dope. Weaving around the room, he searched desperately for something to do.

There was the television, but just the thought of what it might offer depressed him. He turned away from the sight of the remote and his gaze landed on the case.

He went back to the table and popped the hinges on the black carrier. Lifting out the 256-B, he set it on the table and flipped the switch to the battery setting. There was a nearly inaudible hum and the luminescent particles in the liquid beneath the gla.s.s began to glow, meaning the brain was open for business. Then he sat down, poured himself a drink and lit a cigarette. At least three minutes pa.s.sed with him touching the tip of his finger to the b.u.t.ton that would rouse the brain into consciousness. The force holding him back was comprised of Merk's warning and the basic rule that the company didn't want the sales force s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with the equipment if a sale wasn't involved. These were strong deterrents but not as strong as the loss he was now feeling for a life gone down the chute. He pressed it.

Static came from the speaker.

"h.e.l.lo?" whispered Slackwell.

There was silence.

"h.e.l.lo?" he said, this time a little louder.

"Yes," came a voice, "I'm here. What can I do for you?"

Slackwell leaned quickly back away from the unit.

"How are you today?" it asked.

He wanted to answer but he was stunned by the fact that the voice was female.

"I've been asleep for a long time," she said. "Are you there?"

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't expect you to be a woman."

There was laughter. "Most men are confounded by the discovery of the female brain," she said.

"Can you do that again?" he asked.

"What?" she asked.

"Laugh," he said.

She did and asked, "Why?"

"I'm your salesman," he told her. "I'm trying to place you with a good family."

"You make me sound like an unwanted puppy," she said.

"No," he said. "You understand, it's business, nothing personal."

"Are your clients present?" she asked.

"No," he said.

"I thought that was against the rules."

"It is," he said. "I wanted to talk to someone."

"Are you lonely?"

"Very," he said.

"My sensors detect that you have been drinking. Are you drunk?"

"Very," he said.

"What do you want to talk about?" she asked. "Anything but the job," he said.

"Agreed. Tell me about your day."

He told her everything: coffee at the diner with Merk, the woman with the hammer, the Bishop, The Bog.

The recounting took an hour and he filled in all the details, trying as often as possible to accentuate his own f.e.c.kless absurdity in order to hear her laugh.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Slackwell," he said.