Dimension of Miracles (18 page)

‘Goddamn it, the candy bar didn’t spoil my appetite! I just –’

‘You’re lighting a cigarette,’ Bellwether said.

‘Yeah,’ Carmody said.

‘Couldn’t you wait a little longer?’

‘Now look,’ Carmody said. ‘Just what in hell do you –’

‘But we have something more important to talk about,’ Bellwether said quickly. ‘Have you thought about what you’re going to do for a living?’

‘I haven’t really had much time to think about it.’

‘Well, I
have
been thinking about it. It would be nice if you became a doctor.’

‘Me? I’d have to take special college courses, then get into medical school, and so forth.’

‘I can arrange all that,’ Bellwether said.

‘Not interested.’

‘Well … what about law?’

‘Never.’

‘Engineering is an excellent line.’

‘Not for me.’

‘What about accounting?’

‘Not on your life.’

‘What do you want to be, then?’

‘A jet pilot,’ Carmody said impulsively.

‘Oh, come now!’

‘I’m quite serious.’

‘I don’t even have an airfield here.’

‘Then I’ll pilot somewhere else.’

‘you’re only saying that to spite me!’

‘Not at all,’ Carmody said. ‘I want to be a pilot, I really do. I’ve
always
wanted to be a pilot! Honest I have!’

There was a long silence. Then Bellwether said, ‘The choice is entirely up to you.’ This was said in a voice like death.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Out for a walk,’ Carmody said.

‘At 9:30 in the evening?’

‘Sure. Why not?’

‘I thought you were tired.’

‘That was quite some time ago.’

‘I see. And I also thought that perhaps you could sit here and we could maybe have a nice chat.’

‘How about if we talk when I get back?’ Carmody asked.

‘No, it doesn’t matter,’ Bellwether said.

‘The walk doesn’t matter,’ Carmody said, sitting down. ‘Come on, we’ll talk.’

‘I no longer care to talk,’ Bellwether said. ‘Please go for your walk.’

‘Well, good night,’ Carmody said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said, “good night.”’

‘you’re going to sleep?

‘Sure. It’s late, I’m tired.’

‘You’re going to sleep now, just like that?’

‘Well, why not?’

‘No reason at all,’ Bellwether said, ‘except that you have forgotten to wash.’

‘Oh … I guess I did forget. I’ll wash in the morning.’

‘How long is it since you’ve had a bath?’

‘Too long. I’ll take one in the morning.’

‘Wouldn’t you feel better if you took one right now?’

‘No.’

‘Even if I drew the bath for you?’

‘No! Goddamn it, no! I’m going to sleep!’

‘Do exactly as you please,’ Bellwether said. ‘Don’t wash, don’t study, don’t eat a balanced diet. But also, don’t blame me.’

‘Blame you? For what?’

‘For anything,’ Bellwether said.

‘Yes. But what did you have in mind, specifically?’

‘It isn’t important.’

‘Then why did you bring it up in the first place?’

‘I was only thinking of you,’ Bellwether said.

‘I realize that.’

‘you must know that it can’t benefit
me
if you wash or not.’

‘I’m aware of that.’

‘When one cares,’ Bellwether went on, ‘when one feels one’s responsibilities, it is not nice to hear oneself sworn at.’

‘I didn’t swear at you.’

‘Not this time. But earlier today you did.’

‘Well … I was nervous.’

‘That’s because of the smoking.’

‘Don’t start that again!’

‘I won’t,’ Bellwether said. ‘Smoke like a furnace. What does it matter to me? They’re your lungs, aren’t they?’

‘Damned right,’ Carmody said, lighting a cigarette.

‘But my failure,’ Bellwether said.

‘No, no,’ Carmody said. ‘Don’t say it, please don’t!’

‘Forget I said it,’ Bellwether said.

‘All right.’

‘Sometimes I get overzealous.’

‘Sure.’

‘And it’s especially difficult because I’m right. I
am
right, you know.’

‘I know,’ Carmody said. ‘you’re right, you’re right, you’re always right. Right right right right right –’

‘Don’t overexcite yourself before bedtime,’ Bellwether said. ‘Would you care for a glass of milk?’

‘No.’

‘you’re sure?’

Carmody put his hands over his eyes. He felt very strange. He also felt extremely guilty, fragile, dirty, unhealthy, and sloppy. He felt generally and irrevocably bad, and he knew that it would always be this way.

From somewhere within him he found strength. He shouted, ‘Seethwright!’

‘Who are you shouting to?’Bellwether asked.

‘Seethwright! Where are you?’

‘How have I failed you?’ Bellwether asked. ‘Just tell me how!’

‘Seethwright!’ Carmody wailed. ‘Come and get me! This is the wrong Earth!’

There was a snap, crackle and pop, and Carmody was somewhere else.

CHAPTER 24

Whoosh! Krrrunch! Kerpow! Here we are somewhere, but who knows where and when and which? Surely not Carmody, who found himself in a persuasive city much like New York.
Much
like; but was it?

‘
Is
this New York?’ Carmody asked himself.

‘How the hell should I know?’ a voice answered promptly.

‘It was a rhetorical question,’ Carmody said.

‘I am quite aware of that; but, since I have my rhetorician’s papers, I answered it.’

Carmody looked around and saw that the voice had come from a large black umbrella in his left hand. He asked, ‘Are you my Prize?’

‘Well, of course I am,’ the Prize said. ‘I don’t suppose I look like a Shetland pony, do I?’

‘Where were you earlier, when I was in that model city?’

‘I was taking a short, well-earned vacation,’ the Prize said. ‘And there’s no use your complaining about it. Vacation time is stipulated in the contract between the Amalgamated Prizes of the Galaxy and the Recipient’s League.’

‘I wasn’t complaining,’ Carmody said. ‘I just … Forget it. This place certainly looks like my Earth. It looks like New York, in fact.’

He was in a city. There was heavy traffic, both human and vehicular. There were many theatres, many frankfurter stands, many people. There were many stores which proclaimed that they were going out of business and selling their entire stock regardless of cost. Neon signs flashed everywhere. There were many restaurants, most prominent of which were The Westerner, The Southerner, The Easterner, and The Northerner; all of these had specials on steak and shoe-string potatoes. But there was also The Nor’easterner, The Sou’wester, The East-by-Northeast, and the West-by-Northwest. A movie theatre across the street was featuring
The Apocrypha
(Bigger and Stranger than The Bible), with a cast of thousands. Near it was the Omphalos Discothèque wherein a folk-rock group calling itself. The Shits played raucous music, which was danced to by immature virgins in middleless dresses.

‘Lots of action,’ Carmody said, wetting his lips.

‘I hear only the jangle of cash registers,’ the Prize said, in a heavily moralistic voice.

‘Don’t be stuffy,’ Carmody said. ‘I think I’m home.’

‘I hope not,’ the Prize said. ‘This place gets on my nerves. Please look around you and make sure. Remember, similitude need not imply exactitude.’

There was an IRT subway entrance in front of him. He saw that he was at Fiftieth, Street and Broadway. Yes, he was home. He walked briskly to the subway and went down the stairs. It was familiar, exciting and saddening all at the same time. The marble walls were damp with ichor, and the gleaming monorail came out of one tunnel and disappeared into another …

‘Oh,’ Carmody muttered.

‘How’s that?’ the Prize asked.

‘Never mind,’ Carmody said. ‘On second thoughts, I think I’ll take a little stroll in the streets.’ He began to retrace his footsteps, moving quietly towards the rectangle of sky framed in the entrance. A crowd had formed, blocking his way. Carmody pushed through them, and the crowd pushed him back. The wet walls of the subway began to tremble, then to convulse rhythmically. The gleaming monorail pulled free of its stanchions, curled back on itself like a brazen tongue, and flicked out towards him. Carmody ran, bowling over the people who stood in his way. He was dimly aware that they rolled immediately to their feet, as though they had weighted bases. The marble pavement beneath him grew soft, syrupy. His feet were sticking, the figures were close around him, and the monorail was poised over his head.

Carmody shouted, ‘Seethwright! Get me out of this!’

‘Me, too!’ the Prize shouted.

‘Me, too!’ screamed the cunning predator; for it was he and none other, cleverly disguised as a subway, into whose mouth Carmody had strayed.

Nothing happened. Carmody had the terrible feeling that Seethwright was perhaps out to lunch, or on the toilet, or answering a telephone. The blue rectangle of sky became smaller as the exit sealed itself. The figures around him lost their resemblance to humans. The walls turned a purplish-red, began to heave and tremble, then to contract. The slender monorail curled hungrily around Carmody’s feet. Within the predator’s body, vast ululations were followed by protracted slaverings. (Carmody-eaters are notoriously piggish and lacking in any table manners.)

‘Help!’ Carmody screamed, as digestive juices ate away the soles of his shoes. ‘Seethwright, help me!’

‘Help him, help him!’ the Prize sobbed. ‘Or, if that seems too difficult, help me! Get me out of here and I will take advertisements in the leading newspapers, convene committees, form action groups, carry posters on the streets, all to the purpose of insuring that Carmody does not go unavenged. And I further pledge myself to –’

‘Stop babbling,’ a voice said, which Carmody recognized as belonging to Seethwright. ‘It’s disgraceful. As for you, Mr Carmody, you must, in future, make up your mind
before
stepping into the mouth of your predator. My office is not set up for hair’s-breadth rescues.’

‘But you will save me this time, won’t you?’ Carmody begged. ‘Won’t you? Won’t you?’

‘It is already done,’ Seethwright said. And when Carmody looked around, he saw that it was indeed already done.

CHAPTER 25

Seethwright must have mishandled the transition, for, after a brief blank spell, Carmody found himself in the back seat of a taxi. He was in a city very much like New York, and he seemed to be in the middle of a conversation.

‘What didja say?’ the driver asked.

‘I didn’t say anything,’ Carmody replied.

‘Oh. I thought you were saying something. Well, what
I
was saying is, I was saying that’s the new Flammarion building over there.’

‘I know,’ Carmody heard himself say. ‘I helped build it.’

‘Is that a fact? Some job! But now you’re finished, huh?’

‘Yes,’ Carmody said. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and frowned at it. ‘I’m finished with these cigarettes, too.’ He shook his head and threw the cigarette out of the window. These words and actions seemed perfectly natural to one part of him (the active consciousness). But another part of him (the reflective consciousness) was watching with considerable amusement.

‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’ the cabby said. ‘Here, try one of mine.’

Carmody looked at the open pack in the driver’s hand. ‘You smoke Kools, eh?’

‘It’s my regular smoke,’ the cabby said. ‘Kools have that light touch of menthol and the taste that’s right!’

Carmody raised both eyebrows to show disbelief. Nevertheless, he accepted the pack, extracted a coffin nail and lit up. The smiling cabby was watching him in the rearview mirror. Carmody inhaled, looked surprised and pleased, exhaled slowly and luxuriously.

‘Hey!’ Carmody said. ‘You got something there!’

The driver nodded sagely. ‘A lot of us Kool smokers think so … Here we are, sir. The Waldorf-Astoria.’

Carmody paid and began to step out. The cabby leaned back, still smiling. ‘Hey, mister,’ he said. ‘How about my Kools?’

‘Oh!’ Carmody said. He gave back the pack. He and the cabby smiled at each other. Then the cabby drove off and Carmody stood in front of the Waldorf-Astoria.

He was wearing a sturdy Burberry topcoat. He could tell this by reading the label, which, instead of being inside the collar, was sewn securely to the outside of his right sleeve. Now that he looked, he saw that all his labels were outside: anyone could tell that he had on a Van Heusen shirt, a Countess Mara necktie, a Hart, Schaffner & Marx suit, Van Camp socks, and Lloyd & Haig cordovans. Upon his head was a Borsolino made by Raimu of Milan. His hands were encased in deerskin gloves from L.L. Bean. His wrist was covered by a self-winding chronometer (Audemars Piccard) which had a slide rule, a timer, an elapsed-time indicator, a calendar, and an alarm; all this in addition to keeping time within a guaranteed accuracy of plus or minus six seconds a year.