Cat's Pajamas (26 page)

Cautiously I entered. Spacious and high roofed, the barn was a kind of agrarian cathedral, the Chartres of animal husbandry. In the far corner, hunched over a baby grand piano, sat a humanoid bull: blunt nose, gaping nostrils, a long tapering horn projecting from either side of his head. Whereas his hind legs were of the bovine variety, his forelegs ended in a pair of human hands that skated gracefully along the keyboard. He shared his bench with my wife, and even at this distance I could see that the bull man's virtuosity had brought her to the brink of rapture.

Cerebrum in tow, I made my way across the barn. With each step, my apprehension deepened, my confusion increased, and my anger toward Vickie intensified. Apprehension, confusion, anger: while I was not yet accustomed to experiencing such sensations in a location other than my head, the phenomenon now seemed less peculiar than when I'd first returned to sentience.

“I know what you're thinking,” said Vickie, acknowledging my presence. “Why am I sitting here when I should be helping you recover from the operation? Please believe me: Karl said the anesthesia wouldn't wear off for another four hours.”

She proceeded to explain that Karl was the shepherd who'd tranquilized me on the road, subsequently convincing her to follow him onto the farm rather than suffer the identical fate. But Karl's name was the least of what Vickie had learned during the past forty-eight hours. Our present difficulties, she elaborated, traced to the VD screening we'd received on Wednesday. In exchange for a substantial payment, Judge Stratus had promised to alert his patrons at Pollifex Farm the instant he happened upon a blood sample bearing the deoxyribonucleic acid component known as QZ-11-4. Once in possession of this gene—or, more specifically, once in possession of a human brain whose
in utero
maturation had been influenced by this gene—Dr. Pollifex's biological investigations could go forward.

“Oh, Blake, they're doing absolutely
wonderful
work here.” Vickie rose from the bench, came toward me, and, taking care not to become entangled in my spinal cord, gave me a mildly concupiscent hug. “An external brain to go with your external genitalia—I think it's very sexy.”

“Stop talking nonsense, Vickie!” I said. “I've been
mutilated!”

She stroked my bandaged forehead and said, “Once you hear the whole story, you'll realize that your bilateral hemispherectomy serves a greater good.”

“Call me Maxwell,” said the bull man, lifting his fingers from the keyboard. “Maxwell Taurus.” His voice reminded me of Charles Laughton's. “I must congratulate you on your choice of marriage partner, Blake. Vickie has a refreshingly open mind.”

“And I have a depressingly vacant skull,” I replied. “Take me to this lunatic Pollifex so I can get my brain put back where it belongs.”

“The doctor would never agree to that.” Maxwell fixed me with his stare, his eyes all wet and brown like newly created caramel apples. “He requires round-the-clock access to your anterior cortex.”

A flock of human-headed geese fluttered into the barn, raced toward a battered aluminum trough full of grain, and began to eat. Unlike Maxwell, the geese did not possess the power of speech-either that, or they simply had nothing to say to each other.

I sighed and leaned against my library cart. “So what, exactly, does QZ-11-4
do?”

“Dr. Pollifex calls it the integrity gene, wellspring of decency, empathy, and compassionate foresight,” said Maxwell. “Francis of Assisi had it. So did Charles Darwin, Clara Barton, Mahatma Gandhi, Florence Nightingale, Albert Schweitzer, and Susan B. Anthony. And now—now that Dr. Pollifex has started injecting me with a serum derived from your hypertrophic superego—now
I've
got it too.”

Although my vanity took a certain satisfaction in Maxwell's words, I realized that I'd lost the thread of his logic. “At the risk of sounding disingenuously modest, I'd have to say I'm not a particularly ethical individual.”

“Even if a person inherits QZ-11-4, it doesn't necessarily enjoy expression. And even if the gene enjoys expression”—Maxwell offered me a semantically freighted stare—“the beneficiary doesn't always learn to use his talent. Indeed, among Dr. Pollifex's earliest discoveries was the fact that complete QZ-11-4 actualization is impossible in a purely human species. The serum—we call it Altruoid—the serum reliably engenders ethical superiority only in people who've been genetically melded with domesticated birds and mammals.”

“You mean—you used to be… human?”

“For twenty years I sold life insurance under the name Lewis Phelps. Have no fear, Blake. We are not harvesting your cerebrum in vain. I shall employ my Altruoid allotment to bestow great boons on Greenbriar.”

“You might fancy yourself a moral giant,” I told the bull man, “but as far as I'm concerned, you're a terrorist and a brain thief, and I intend to bring this matter to the police.”

“You will find that strategy difficult to implement.” Maxwell left his piano and, walking upright on his hooves, approached my library cart. “Pollifex Farm is enclosed by a barbed-wire fence twelve feet high. I suggest you try making the best of your situation.”

The thought of punching Maxwell in the face now occurred to me, but I dared not risk uprooting my arteries and spinal cord. “If Pollifex continues pilfering my cortex, how long before I become a basket case?”

“Never. The doctor happens to be the world's greatest neurocartographer. He'll bring exquisite taste and sensitivity to each extraction. During the next three years, you'll lose only trivial knowledge, useless skills, and unpleasant memories.”

“Three years?” I howled. “You bastards plan to keep me here
three years?”

“Give or take a month. Once that interval has passed, my peers and I shall have reached the absolute apex of vertebrate ethical development.”

“See, Blake, they've thought of
everything,”
said Vickie. “These people are
visionaries.”

“These people are Nazis,” I said.

“Really, sir, name calling is unnecessary,” said Maxwell with a snort. “There's no reason we can't all be friends.” He rested an affirming hand on my shoulder. “We've given you a great deal of information to absorb. I suggest you spend tomorrow afternoon in quiet contemplation. Come evening, we'll all be joining the doctor for dinner. It's a meal you're certain to remember.”

My new bride and I passed the night in our depressing little cottage beside the windmill. Much to my relief I discovered that my sexual functioning had survived the bilateral hemispherectomy. We had to exercise caution, of course, lest we snap the vital link between medulla and cord, with the result that the whole encounter quickly devolved into a kind of slow-motion ballet Vickie said it was like mating with a china figurine, the first negative remark I'd heard her make concerning my predicament.

At ten o'clock the next morning, one of Karl's human-headed sheep entered the bedroom, walking upright and carrying a wicker tray on which rested two covered dishes. When I asked the sheep how long she'd been living at Pollifex Farm, her expression became as vacant as a cake of soap. I concluded that the power of articulation was reserved only to those mutants on an Altruoid regimen.

The sheep bowed graciously and left, and we set about devouring our scrambled eggs, hot coffee, and buttered toast. Upon consuming her final mouthful, Vickie announced that she would spend the day reading two scientific treatises she'd received from Maxwell, both by Dr. Pollifex:
On the Mutability of Species
and
The Descent of Morals.
I told her I had a different agenda. If there was a way out of this bucolic asylum, I was by-God going to find it.

Before I could take leave of my wife, Karl himself appeared, clutching a black leather satchel to his chest as a mother might hold a baby. He told me he deeply regretted Wednesday's assault—I must admit, I detected no guile in his apology—then explained that he'd come to collect the day's specimen. From the satchel he removed a glass-and-steel syringe, using it to suck up a small quantity of anterior cortex and transfer it to a test tube. When I told Karl that I felt nothing during the procedure, he reminded me that the human brain is an insensate organ, nerveless as a stone.

I commenced my explorations. Pollifex's domain was vaster than I'd imagined, though most of its fields and pastures were deserted. True to the bull man's claim, a fence hemmed the entire farm, the barbed-wire strands woven into a kind of demonic tennis net and strung between steel posts rising from a concrete foundation. In the northeast corner lay a barn as large as Maxwell's concert hall, and it was here, clearly, that Andre Pollifex perpetuated his various crimes against nature. The doors were barred, the windows occluded, but by staring through the cracks in the walls I managed to catch glimpses of hospital gurneys, surgical lights, and three enormous glass beakers in which sallow, teratoid fetuses drifted like pickles in brine.

About twenty paces from Pollifex's laboratory, a crumbling toolshed sat atop a hill of naked dirt. I gave the door a hard shove—not too hard, given my neurological vulnerability—and it pivoted open on protesting hinges. A shaft of afternoon sunlight struck the interior, revealing an assortment of rakes, shovels, and pitchforks, plus a dozen bags of fertilizer—but, alas, no wire cutters.

My perambulations proved exhausting, both mentally and physically, and I returned to the cottage for a much needed nap. That afternoon, my brain tormented me with the notorious “student's dream.” I'd enrolled in an advanced biology course at my old alma mater, Rutgers, but I hadn't attended a single class or handed in even one assignment. And now I was expected to take the final exam.

Vickie, my brain, and I were the last to arrive at Andre Pollifex's dinner party, which occurred in an airy glass-roofed conservatory attached to the back of the farmhouse. The room smelled only slightly better than the piano barn. At the head of the table presided our host, a disarmingly ordinary looking man, weak of jaw, slight of build, distinguished primarily by his small black moustache and complementary goatee. His face was pale and flaccid, as if he'd been raised in a cave. The instant he opened his mouth to greet us, though, I apprehended something of his glamour, for he had the most majestic voice I've ever heard outside of New York's Metropolitan Opera House.

“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Meeshaw,” he said. “May I call you Blake and Vickie?”

“Of course,” said Vickie.

“May I call you Joseph Mengele?” I said.

Pollifex's white countenance contracted into a scowl. “I can appreciate your distress, Blake. Your sacrifice has been great. I believe I speak for everyone here when I say that our gratitude knows no bounds.”

Karl directed us into adjacent seats, then resumed his place next to Pollifex, directly across from the bull man. I found myself facing a pig woman whose large ears flopped about like college pennants and whose snout suggested an oversized button. Vickie sat opposite a goat man with a tapering white beard dangling from his chin and two corrugated horns sprouting from his brow.

“I'm Serge Milkovich,” said the goat man, shaking first Vickie's hand, then mine. “In my former life I was Bud Frye, plumbing contractor.”

“Call me Juliana Sowers,” said the pig woman, enacting the same ritual. “At one time I was Doris Owens of Owens Real Estate, but then I found a higher calling. I cannot begin to thank you for the contribution you're making to science, philosophy, and local politics.”

“Local politics?” I asked.

“We three beneficiaries of QZ-11-4 form the core of the new Common Sense Party,” said Juliana. “We intend to transform Greenbriar into the most livable community in America.”

“I'm running for Borough Council,” said Serge. “Should my campaign prove successful, I shall fight to keep our town free of Consumerland discount stores. Their advent is inevitably disastrous for local merchants.”

Juliana crammed a handful of hors d'oeuvres into her mouth. “I seek a position on the School Board. My stances won't prove automatically popular—better pay for elementary teachers, sex education starting in grade four—but I'm prepared to support them with passion and statistics.”

Vickie grabbed my hand and said, “See what I mean, Blake? They may be mutants, but they have terrific ideas.”

“As for me, I've got my eye on the Planning Commission,” said Maxwell, releasing a loud and disconcerting burp. “Did you know there's a scheme afoot to run the Route 80 Extension along our northern boundary, just so it'll be easier for people to get to Penn State football games? Once construction begins, the environmental desecration will be profound.”

As Maxwell expounded upon his anti-extension arguments, a half-dozen sheep arrived with our food. In deference to Maxwell and Juliana, the cuisine was vegetarian: tofu, lentils, capellini with meatless marinara sauce. It was all quite tasty, but the highlight of the meal was surely the venerable and exquisite vintages from Pollifex's cellar. After my first few swallows of Brunello di Montalcino, I worried that Pollifex's scalpel had denied me the pleasures of intoxication, but eventually the expected sensation arrived. (I attributed the hiatus to the extra distance my blood had to travel along my extended arteries.) By the time the sheep were serving dessert, I was quite tipsy, though my bursts of euphoria alternated uncontrollably with spasms of anxiety.

“Know what I think?” I said, locking on Pollifex as I struggled to prevent my brain from slurring my words. “I think you're trying to turn me into a zombie.”

The doctor proffered a heartening smile. “Your discomfort is understandable, Blake, but I can assure you all my interventions have been innocuous thus far—and will be in the future. Tell me, what two classroom pets did your second-grade teacher, Mrs. Hines, keep beside her desk, and what were their names?”