Chapter Thirty-Eight: In the Arms of Judas Priest

Bryson was used to administering a large staff that performed all of the tasks she was now performing. She reviewed reports, attended virtual meetings where all of the participants were aliases, was briefed over cocktails, but she rarely if ever laid her hands upon an instrument, administered a pill or monitored a readout. Paradigmatic cases were presented to her by others who had culled them for her review. Plunging herself into the minutiae of working with Felix revitalized her, squashed the melancholy, the feeling of pointlessness that had pulsed through her since she had lost control of transcryptasine, since the evening she had left that final meeting and met Bradlee at The Lounge.

The joy and comfort of work. Work always had a destination, although, like desire, it was a search for what one did not have and would never actually reach. Still, work achieved the result and the best outcome was the unexpected result, the fortuitous surprise, the fruitful blunder, the felix culpa. Suspension in desire, disciplined by the routines of the lab and the method, anchored to the material reality, which always seemed to drift free with slight incongruities from established fact, demanding an explanation, was pure joy. The alloy of theory, fact and reality.

She monitored Felix’s sleeping body. Equipment was set up at a discreet distance from the bed and while he wandered the garden his recumbent form was subject to a carefully planned bombardment of electromagnetic fields, secondary harmonic generation scans, multiphoton microscopic neuronal mapping, magnetic pulse stream analysis, wave interference pattern analysis, tubule calibration. The data stream cascaded, riverine, torrential, through the night, as she searched for the signature wave. It was strange, exacting work, pursuing traces of phantom forces, errant particles, emanations of great subtlety that needed to be identified, separated, measured and correlated. Noise had to be filtered. Her own noise; the noise of the machines; the noise of his stomach growling; the noise of the universe. Each day a different array of instruments was brought to bear upon the different states of his sleeping brain. She spent hours alone in the semi dark staring at the pink and green and orange lights, the oscillations, patterns of activity surging through screens like the aurora borealis. Sunspot activity, pulsars, quasars and black holes of cognition. There were the states: umbra, penumbra, vovulos, flat, tetrahedron, dodecahedron, sphere and the operations, delta, tributary, permutation, chiasmus. Then she spent even more hours in a sort of umbra state of her own with a cup of coffee growing cold in her hand while she stared at his beautiful, serious, deadly still face. The color was so suggestive, the features so gentle. She had never studied a single person so closely. She began to know him physically the way she knew, what? She knew nothing in such intimate detail, nothing real anyway. The theory of the mind, its mathematical dimension as well as the noncomputational Onto, the spectral Grembo, were as familiar, but they were maps and here she was wandering free in the land. All her life she had evaded the familiar by changing places often: at Cornell she moved every year to a new room; when she came to Monozone they bought a home in Great Neck, but she kept it spare and slept at the lab unless Leonard was in town. It was he who filled it with books, cases of insects on pins and tissue samples, his library of bound black journals; artifacts found at country markets or dug up from deposits. Then, when they sold the house and he migrated north to the GMZ, she moved into the lab in name as well as fact and kept her place with a bar of soap and a roll of toilet paper and some books, all of which vanished with use.

Felix never moved in his sleep. Most people thrash about, they gulp or snore or stretch. Some walk, grip their fists, sit up startled and stare at nothing. Talkers, mumblers, walkers, screamers. But people on transcryptasine were spookily still. And although she called it dreaming she knew it was not in fact dreaming. They were in Umbra, no REM, long regular pulses, synchronized with bang echo Drone, just enough to breathe and beat the heart. On the drug they could enter this state at will. But waking them from it was difficult. It was as if they had to return consciously to their body. This was where the dream journal came in. Dreams bored her. But she wanted to know where he went. She wanted to know everything. She had to find out how he was different.

She came to feel that she possessed him and was possessed by him. His skin, his hair, his eyes were so alive, so vibrant. It was as if he were flooded with light. She studied his fluid profiles, his radiographic call and response, his echolocutor graphs. His hormonal profile was that of a pregnant 18 year old. With a little stimulation he would start to lactate. She lifted the sheet of silver electraweave off of his body and examined his chest. She listened to the slow, calm pulse of his breathing and heart beat with a stethoscope, like the breakers at midnight on a desolate beach beneath moon and clouds, the steady humph and hiss and green, phosphorescent radiance of algae dissolving in the foam. She ran her fingers through his rich curled hair, touched his nipples. They were almost like a woman’s and yet they were still masculine, as if the two had coincided there. What is that smell, she wondered. It was an alluring, emotional scent, like Julie Fripp’s, but stronger. It fruited in her mind, tantalized her at idle moments away from the lab. All of her juice was engaged in this; she felt her own rhythms synchronizing with his, as if his pulse were strong enough to reset the minds around him. But it was antagonistic too, and intimidating. She sometimes felt totally at odds, as if her definition were achieved against his background. Then it reversed and she was the background static to his aria. Was it just him or the drug?

Eventually, in his sleeping presence, she began to fantasize about fucking him. She became so aroused she would go back to her bedroom and masturbate, but the orgasms were always disappointing and she felt she was neglecting her duty. Something, some scruple prevented her from sitting there in front of him with the vibrator humming in her pants. It was a struggle sometimes not to rip the sheet off of him and mount him right there in his sleep. Bradlee came to get her in the evenings and she would barely notice his presence. She would treat him as a surrogate, take him to his apartment where she banged and pummeled, sucked and stalked and took him to her insatiably. She never wanted to stop studying Felix. He was this radiating node of cosmic energy, the center of a new universe, and he was laid up in her lab.

Awake he was an awkward presence. He was never anything but polite but he couldn’t conceal his hatred for Monozone and, by extension, her. She was the author of his misery, the antagonist given a face. She and they deserved it. Now she knew, viscerally, what Leonard meant. There were thousands, tens of thousands of Felix’s around the world and they either were or would be dead because of her. Millions if she didn’t do something more, and soon.

The ding project was being counteracted. Boyle spent more time with Bradlee and Bradlee was almost mad with preoccupation. Impatient with her, yet totally dependent because he could trust no one else.

Boyle came in one morning, his harsh, frightening face softened with such happiness he was a different man. “Doc,” he said, rushing her. “I brung you these.” He whipped from behind his back a bouquet of natural flowers. Before he finished doing so Felix awoke and hopped down off the gurney.

“Flowers,” he said.

“They’re for the Doc,” Boyle said testily.

“Is it Valentines Day or something?” she asked, perplexed but pleased by the red tulips, purple dutch iris, baby’s breath and fern. She went to one of the black cabinets along the wall, opened it and selected a beaker that she filled with water. Then she arranged the flowers quickly, setting them on the counter top.

“Dr. Velodia came through for Medear! She read her transcript, met with her here in the city, so we didn’t have to get no hovercraft even, then she took her back to Cornell and gave her a campus tour! I mean, she gave her a recommendation, the whole nine yards. Oh Doc–” his eyes reddened and he looked away, “you never seen a kid so happy before. Holy fuck, nothing but grins ear to ear. The last time I seen her like that she was a little girl, and it had snowed and they was playing while it came down in the streetlights. That was back in, I dunno, 70? 69? Oh man, it brings a father to his knees, I’m tellin’ you. You saved all of our lives.” He kissed her and hugged her awkwardly and wiped the tears away. “Jesus look at me, kissing you and cryin’ like a girl. I’m sorry doc. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” she asked.

“I shouldn’t oughta touch you is all, but she couldna never done it widouch ya, and I just wanted you to know that, that me and Trinh Ma and Medear know what you done for us, and we, we, thank yous for it is all.”

She kissed his cheek and smiled. “Don’t sweat it, Boyle. You’re a good man. She deserves a break if anyone does. Now forget about it.”

He shook his head. “Forget about it? Forget about it! I can’t, and I ain’t a good man. No.”

They sat down and drank some coffee. Felix took a shower and started to work out on the bike. Bryson said, “So what’s up with you and Bradlee?”

Boyle’s face fell. He ground his teeth. He stood up tensely. “He wanted me to shoot some putz lawyer. I mean, I chase the guy down the stairs and into the street and then into the park at 88th and Fifth. Fucking spooky neighborhood and the park there is like a jungle. My gun is out and this guy in a suit’s running and screaming and the cops, they come after us in a hovercraft, two bulls on foot, you know. Then Bradlee calls ’em off when he shows him his DOD ID. That badge of his carries some weight I’ll tell you cause the cops, they back off right away and by then, I got this guy pissin’ his pants, on his knees cryin’ and shit. Bradlee tells me if I don’t blow his brains out he will. I’m sayin’, you don’t pay me enough for this. Then he says he’ll send my youngest kid to school if I pull the trigger and I’m thinking, is that any way to pay for it? And then I think, fuck it. That lawyer, wouldn’t he pull the trigger? Anyone out there not gonna kill me if Owen Bradlee says to? So I’m thinking like this and the lawyer, he cries uncle. Says he’ll drop the case and give up the name of his client and the doctor he had locked up for a witness. So today we gotta go to the witness to persuade him not to cooperate with the opposition. If he don’t agree, I gotta blow his brains out. It makes me hungry just thinking about it. I don’t mind throwin’ my weight around but Laraby never said nothing about no killing.”

Bryson sipped her coffee. “How much has he found out?”

“About what?” Boyle relaxed a little and sat down.

“These doctors who won’t prescribe transcryptasine.”

Boyle snickered grimly. “They keep rattin’ each other out. They take one look at me and decide to cooperate. They’re all over the place. Put out one fire, another flares up.”

“So Bradlee’s theory that there’s a conspiracy–”

“Oh, there’s a conspiracy all right. And he’s pissed cause he figures it for an inside deal but there’s nothing yet, just the Wannalacka something conference they all went to.”

Bradlee walked in and they fell silent. “Hello everyone. Good morning. How is our patient this morning?” Felix, biking furiously in place, glared at Bradlee and huffed. “I see. Well, good for the old ticker, eh? Ho ho. Any results yet?”

“Well, interesting observations still.”

“But nothing definite? It’s a little slow going, wouldn’t you say?”

“He could lactate at any minute,” she said. “His hormonal profile is that of a pregnant woman. Physically, he appears to be recapitulating the younger phases of human growth, from birth to puberty. The nerves in his brain are remyelinating. Cells are regenerating. Look at his skin and hair, they’re thick like a child’s.”

“But is that why he doesn’t he die?”

“Hard to say. He certainly continues to be atypical in just about every way.”

Bradlee frowned. “It all seems so very vague. Come on Boyle, we have work to do.” He noticed the flowers on the counter. “Flowers, delightful. What’s the occasion?”

Boyle started to say something but Bryson interrupted him. “I just picked them up to give to Felix. Remind him that there are other gardens in the world.” She stared at Boyle. His eyes were fixed.

“Right boss. Let’s go.” He looked at Bryson strangely and they left.

As soon as they were gone Felix hopped off the bike. Sweat rolled off of his forehead and his limbs glistened when he stepped through a zone of bright light. The smell diffused through the air and stirred in her gut. She inhaled deeply and blushed. He turned the light down to a deep amber and sat on his bed, facing her, legs dangling. She watched his chest grow still as his breathing slowed, watched his unfocused eyes.

It was hard not to think of him as a stooge and the thought depressed her. For all of his hostility and suspicion he seemed to have no idea what his condition was or who they were. They were the murders of his wife; that much was clear. But in his world that fact seemed to be a mere chorus. He was focused on something else. They were a sideshow. He couldn’t be pinned down because essentially he was not there. They were now locked in a dual illusion, where the other was a shadow of a substance hard to believe in.

“Are you going back to sleep now?” she asked. Her question surprised him. “What are you thinking?”

“Hm? Thinking?” he asked.

Whatever he said he said dismissively and yet he obviously was trying to be polite, out of habit. Or was it gratitude? Empathy and gratitude, Julie Fripp had said. But why should he be grateful? Grace was not dependent on any given quality; it was caritas, freely given. And she was saying, a penny for your thoughts. A homely phrase, her surrogate used to say that to her when she was seated in a corner alone lost in thought. People in her house never lost themselves in anything other than conversation. Meditation was riding over the rough country alone with a shotgun or a vigorous game of tennis. She knew the secret stairways and empty rooms of the basement, pantries never used. And she knew books. What did he know? “Yes. A penny for your thoughts.”

“Penny? Oh, like the coin. I see. No. I’m going to the garden soon. And I was thinking about Promethea.”

“The woman whom you lived with?” She had to remember the things he had told her now. To get the electraweave or consult the computer would stopper the flow. His face was deep and disturbed. She could feel depression coming off of him, like heat waves.

“I had nowhere to go. Do you have any idea what that means? No job, no home. It means you live with the dogs. It means police beat you up and crooks rob you. It means you shit in the street and fuck in the road. You think you know what life is, how things will work out, but in the end you don’t know anything at all.” He shook his head. “She blew her brains out. That’s what we say, blew her brains out. But there’s only the one brain, right? I betrayed a friend, a man who took me in. It is a matter of indifference now that they’re gone. But it was a place I could have stayed, or so I thought. It was inevitable, wasn’t it, that if I came among them then they’d take the drug and once you take it, it naturally follows that you will die in your sleep. But I don’t see how it follows that you will inevitably incite the jealousy of a man who saved your life or that you will fail to love a woman who gave you back your sense of self because she simply accepted that one’s aspiration is out of whack with reality. She was willing to put on what she couldn’t actually feel because it was necessary. And when it came time to start killing, she did; and then, for want of a single word from me, she put the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger. Veronica is on you. Promethea and Peter and Edsel and Moises, they’re on me.”

“So you went to the park?”

He shook his head yes. “The people in the park have been there for three generations, did you know that? They came down from the Bronx, where my people come from. Mine have statues and plaques recalling their valor. They have loincloths and skin ulcers to recall theirs.” He laughed. “They were afraid of me. So I talked to the children. There were some really beautiful days there.” He yawned. “Well, I guess I’d better get back to work.”

“Yes,” she said, sadly. “Whatever. Felix, I….” she wanted to say something. “I can’t really fix what went wrong. I’m, I’m trying to think of some way.”

“Well, if you find a way, let me know.” He lay down on his back and shut his eyes.

“I’m going to write a report,” she said, but he didn’t reply. He was sinking through penumbra into umbra. The numbers sank to near zero. Then something unusual happened. He entered a state of Grembo, ‘lap’, the Zero Point field of mind. There was no machine to map that. There was nothing to map. By all accounts he should be dead. This was it. She sat there stunned. It was always like that. The thing you were looking for is suddenly one day there. She spent the day and the next night searching through all the cases she had studied. And that was it. Everyone who had died in the initial studies had entered Grembo for a moment. LAP. A slip in the data, barely detectable, beneath notice, subliminal. A moment into Grembo and everyone dies, but not Felix.

She was working at her report, assembling initial data into charts, doing the comparisons with controls from her earlier double blind studies. It was evening. She was beginning to make sense of his story. He told in greater detail how it was he had come to live in Midtown. She was trying to fit together the autobiographical facts, the macro life with the micro world of her instruments, correlate the actions with the minute variances in neuroplasticity, temperature, glucose level. Psyche Profile. Subject appeared at first to be psychotic, unable to perceive difference between dreams and waking. Prolonged interviews however reveal subject to be sane and rational albeit with an unconventional explanation of dream life. Problem: subject reports vivid dream experiences during Umbra.

To be safe she was encrypting her notes but still she felt her nerves leap when Boyle and Bradlee came in.

“I hate this,” growled Boyle. Blood was splattered on his tan suit.

“Oh grow up, Boyle,” Bradlee said, washing his hands in a sink scored with chemicals. “He had it coming and I put you in for a bonus. I thought you’d been a soldier in war.”

Boyle said nothing but went to another sink on the other side of the room to wash up. “You got any donuts?” he asked as he dried his hands on his pants. “I need something to tide me over on the train. My stomach’s like a deep fryer.”

“There’s a muffin in the fridge,” she said. “And yogurt.”

Boyle made a face. “Plain. That won’t do. I’ll stop off for a burger. You coming?”

“She is not,” Bradlee said, shaking water off of his hands and scanning the lab for a towel. “She’s coming with me.”

Bryson pushed save and send, which both encrypted and hid the report. “Going with you where?”

“It’s been a beastly day, hot and contrary from the start. It feels and smells like the Sundarbans out there. We’re going to dinner.”

Bryson didn’t want to leave Felix. She wanted him to wake up and tell her more. He gave her this delicious feeling of bitter longing and regret, difficult to explain. The closest thing to it was poetry. Eating dinner and letting Bradlee fuck her was distasteful at best.

“Not tonight, Bradlee.”

“Now Bryson, I’m afraid I must insist. And we’re not going to The Lounge with Boyle either. I want a proper dinner with flunkies and fois gras and caviar. Put on a dress, please, and let’s go.”

She was too weak to fight. In her small closet she pushed hangers apart till she found a cotton gown, vermillion and green, open at the neck, and slipped on a pair of crepe shoes. She looked good in it, that she knew, and in her present mood a little make believe was o.k.

He had reserved a table at an exclusive dining club overlooking Central Park from the penthouse of the Lamont Building on 72nd and CPW. A valet took the car and they were shown to the elevator by a guard with gold braid on his shoulders. There was only one seating a night. The Maitre D’ escorted them to a small table for two next to the window. They watched the park extinguish with twilight, the tops of the trees and the old buildings of Fifth Avenue glowing in setting sun. It was a dark, comfortable, understated room with sixteen candle lit tables. Couples like themselves were seated at a discreet distance, and there were two larger tables, one with a family and the other with two apparently unrelated couples, perhaps a foursome, but maybe only a bridge partnership. Over cocktails they examined the menu.

“The fish is superb,” Bradlee said.

“O.K.”

“As is the steak. Kobe beef, you know. They massage the cattle. Actually, everything is good. Nothing pretentious. None of that fancy fussy stuff they do nowadays. God,” he blustered. “I feel like I’ve been beaten about the ears. Valdez is on my ass to do something about the stock price. Fripp is impossible. The man’s an idiot. He calls me in, but what am I supposed to do? Incidentally, he’s pissed at you.” He glared at her over the menu.

“What did I do?” She tried not to appear defensive but he had caught her off guard.

“Don’t pretend that you don’t know. Your every move is calculated. These little games of yours are quite dangerous. It could get you fired or worse.”

“I–”

“Oh, don’t worry, I saved your job.”

“Bradlee!”

“Good lord, what? More ingratitude?”

“Nothing.” She could say nothing. “What did he say I did?”

“The party?”

“What party? I haven’t been to a party in ages, not since December.”

“Well, ages ago you evidently met with Julie Fripp and told her to ask him about Paregane’s side effects.”

She put down the menu and grew tight. “He’s trying to kill her!”

“She’s mentally ill. Even Boyle would be able to see that. You know, it’s almost as if you were trying to fuck things up. Honestly, Bryson, I don’t know what goes on in your mind sometimes. And Valdez saw right through you.”

“I wasn’t hiding a thing. We got along beautifully. And again, why now?”

“Your discretion and intelligence were well concealed that night and the lag time, dear, can be months. How many moves ahead do you calculate? You must know that Paregane is your fortune.”

“I’ve got plenty of cash.”

“And that’s another thing. Unloading your Monozone stock was not good form.”

She laughed. “Haven’t you sold yours?”

“Not all of it.” He glanced around at the other tables. “The way it’s done is you sell off ten percent at a time.”

“How did you know I sold it? Are you spying on me?”

“If there’s anything I don’t know, I don’t know about it. But you know, greed never got anyone anywhere.”

“A fine thing coming from you.”

Bradlee smiled. “I didn’t say money never got anyone anywhere.

But always going for the bucks without considering the long term cost is foolish.”

“What did you do with the cash then?”

“Ah,” he said, smiling broadly now. “You’ll see.”

She knew she’d never pick that lock till he was ready. “What about these appetizers?”

“Everything here is flawless. No fireworks, quiet perfection. These scallops for instance. Taste like the sea. If only women were so sweet.”

“And the sardines?”

“Grilled with a spritz of lemon and a drizzle of Portuguese olive oil. Fleur de Sel and cracked Tellicherry pepper.” He put down the menu. The waiter came to the table. “Bring us some more bread and another round.” When the waiter was out of earshot Bradlee looked seriously at her and leaned slightly across the table, his eyebrows arched. “Valdez used to be a partner. Now she treats me like an employee. I ask you, where would she be without me? Or Fripp? I’ve been doing their dirty laundry for years and now that they have what they want they’ll blame me if they lose it. Julie Fripp–”

“Her again.”

“I’m not done. The consequences of what is apparently an incident remote in time and significance to you continue to reverberate whether you like it or not. After talking to you she went to her own doctor, who took her off Paregane. Once she had descended back into madness she went and got herself a lawyer, threatened to sue Monozone and divorce her husband. You can imagine the time Boyle and I had. Fripp was livid. Wanted me to kill you at one point.”

She didn’t know how literally to take this. “Good thing I have Boyle as a bodyguard, then.” She had never seen the face he now presented to her before. Only the arrival of the waiter prevented the conversation from going awry. He placed their drinks down and asked if they would like to order.

“What will it be then?” Bradlee asked sternly.

“I’ve hardly had time.” She was hungry. The smell of the bread, the bite of the gin and the olives, stimulated her stomach. She looked up at the waiter and said, “The oysters?”

“We have Kumamotos, Chincoteagues and Wellefleets this evening.”

“An assortment of those is fine, say a dozen. And wine.”

“Make it Vouvrais,” Bradlee said. “I’ll have the scallops.”

He ordered paillards of venison with a wild mushroom ragout and grilled asparagus. She ordered osso buco with white bean puree and green beans amandine. They sat in hostile silence. She watched him closely. His lips were pursed. She even thought he was grinding his teeth. When the appetizers arrived he seemed to change gears. He didn’t mention work and turned the charm up to high, dallied here and there, spoke of his days in India, of fighting. It was a side of him she always forgot about and never would have guessed. When he spoke of the past it was not with nostalgia or regret but as with everything else his take was tainted by his melancholic mood, as if lost worlds were the best one could expect because, after all, they weren’t worth saving. Death was the most necessary force of all. Without death there’d be no opportunity.

“I do hope Leonard hasn’t been inconvenienced by all the trouble up there.”

“We haven’t spoken since Felix arrived. I’ve been too busy. I don’t watch the news or read papers even. He gets along fine though. He’s got that girlfriend.” She couldn’t help saying this disdainfully and, seeing the delight spark in his eyes, regretted it.

“The old goat’s got himself a young dam and you’re still jealous! How long have you known? Almost a year now. I’d never expect that of you my dear. It’s almost touching.”

She blushed. “You should see her. Innocent as hell, too. And stupid.”

“Sounds ideal for a man in his situation. Surely he doesn’t–”

“Oh, but he does. Not often. I don’t ask. But I believe he has an obsession with her vagina.”

“Hmmm.” He muttered darkly. “One’s obsession should always be with one’s own genitals.”

“Anyway, he keeps well out of politics, I can assure you.”

“Shall we have dessert?” he asked, his face assuming its usual jocular posture without quite smiling.

“Why not.” She was suspended on a plain of endless, successive plateaus of physical pleasure, the kind of warm satiety that invites incremental excess as a means of self-propagation.

They ordered chocolate hazelnut torte, espresso and cognac. “Is he in love with her?”

“No,” she shook her head. A forkful of dense fudge and nuts melted on her tongue. “He loves me.”

“You’ve hardly been loyal either.” Somehow he managed to eat without smudging his mustache.

“Who are you to point that out?”

“Surely there’s love, and companionship, and that sort of thing.”

“I just wish I were done with it,” she said, sipping espresso and cognac. “I think we’d better go back to the lab.” She was starting to feel a little anxious as the buzz of dinner attenuated. He lit a cigar and she smoked a few cigarettes.

“Let’s have another drink and look at the night. The view of the park here is so fine. You can even see stars. I love to come here for brunch in October. On a clear day, with the changing leaves, it’s just delightful. Have you ever walked in the park?”

“No. Unless you count capturing Felix.”

He gazed out the window, in a halo of smoke, mumbled, “You ought to someday.” He turned back and looked at her blankly. “Perhaps you could stay the night. Tomorrow we can take the day to stroll through.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“I’ll protect you. I’m armed and familiar with the paths.”

She slowly crushed out her cigarette and felt the room drift through the window into the night. Blue lights illuminated darkly the boughs and sidewalks. “Chivalry,” she said, not so much with a laugh but an amused consideration of the word. “I’ll go back with you, but I can’t stay the night. Felix gets up before dawn and takes another dose. He’s up to five a day now.”

“There’s something contemptible about a man who sleeps so much.”

“He works out two hours a day and hardly eats a thing. The food disgusts him. All he can take is plain organic yogurt, with the fat, bananas and sprouts. Sometimes he asks for almonds and pomegranate, or a dish of figs and dates.”

“Pomegranates? Figs? Dates? How exotically biblical. It’s a wonder we don’t go broke barely feeding him.”

“He hates us, you know.”

Bradlee became indignant. “Why on earth should he?”

“He blames us for his wife. He lost his job, his house, his embryos.”

“No one told her to abuse Paregane.”

“No one told her not to. The doctor told them it was harmless, without side effects. He holds us responsible.”

Bradlee’s face dwindled into boredom. “We are only responsible for ourselves. He should just get over it and move on. Anyway, if things don’t start picking up we’ll have to change tactics. The pressure on me is immense, beyond belief. If he doesn’t yield up some sort of useful result soon I want you to euthanize him.” He snapped his fingers. “We’ll have another round and then the check.”

The apartment was cold and metallic. In the restaurant and car she had felt slightly, pleasantly drunk, but now, on the fiftieth floor, in the chilly white room with its cascade of water and scent of wet stone, she was dizzy. It was difficult to think. They didn’t speak at all in the car. The word euthanize sat between them. The lights were suspended in her eye like cobalt drops in black ink. The word, the message of the evening, assembled and disassembled in her mind. It seemed, dimly, that action was required, but she felt lost. She tried to put together the strands: money, she had money; test results, they were interesting but inconclusive. No. Not inconclusive. All the data she had gathered, all of the facts, pointed in one direction. Felix was an anomaly. He was the most highly variant individual she had ever encountered. He was incorrigibly alienated. The whole premise of transcryptasine, its success was in doubt. The report would be totally unacceptable to any of them. But she had to write and publish it now. The likely consequences? They would kill Felix. That left, what means of escape did she have?

They lay down on the bed. The room spun around. He seized her about the waist. His mustache brushed her nipples, he nuzzled the folds of her stomach and spread her legs. Everything pitched around as his tongue opened the lips of her vagina. Now, whatever pleasure there was, was involuntary. They were in rote now. He curled around and his cock filled her mouth. It thrust in and out and she prayed he wouldn’t cum. She didn’t care how or where else he fucked her, so long as it wasn’t finished in her mouth. She hadn’t vomited in bed once in a career of drunken fucking that began at thirteen, and she wasn’t about to start to now. By his movements she could tell; he was gasping. She stared out between his legs at the sheet. His pubic hair bumped her chin; the flesh smelled faintly of lavender. She let his cock slip out between her lips with a smack and turned around, straddling him. She was just wet and energetic enough to finish him off this way. It hurt a little going in, but once she had the rhythm she played him, taking in the head, rim to rim, and then in three good thrusts he was jelly beneath her. She rolled off and stared up while he fell into a deep snooze. The room stopped turning. It was time to go.

She got up in the dark and as she gathered her clothes noticed his wallet and keys on the steel table. The keys. She could just take off with the car. By the time he woke up she would be hundreds k away, with Leonard. Then the emptiness came. She sat down at the table and let out the tears, stifling a sob. It was clear. The emptiness was clear. A clear medium that permitted her to see, what she had done, what she had to do. The impulse was true and sane, but she must not follow it, rather amplify its meaning. She could take the car, yes. But not till she was ready. She would need a copy of the keys. She wiped the tears from her eyes and went into the living room. The city was dark. A few buildings looked like amber blobs and there was the glow of midtown, concealed by the glass towers. She took her computer and brought it into the bedroom, laying the key quietly on the screen. Then she whispered, scan.