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Fear carries a scent with it
that most humans can't
detect. Most, but not all.
By now, of course, the Northeast
Corridor was the Northeast slum,
stretching from Canada to the
Carolinas and as far west as
Pittsburgh. It was 'a fantastic
jungle of rancid violence
inhabited by a steaming, restless
population with no visible means
of support and no fixed residence,
so vast that census takers,
birth-control supervisors and the
social services had given up all
hope. It was a gigantic raree-show
that everyone denounced and
enjoyed. Even the privileged few
who could afford to live
highly-protected lives in
highly-expensive Oases and could
live anywhere else they pleased
never thought of leaving. The
jungle grabbed you. There were
thousands of everyday survival
problems but one of the most
exasperating was the shortage of
fresh water. Most of the available
potable water had long since been
impounded by progressive
industries for the sake of a
better tomorrow and there was very
little left to go around.
Rainwater tanks on the roofs, of
course. A black market, naturally.
That was about all. So the jungle
stank. It stank worse than the
court of Queen Elizabeth, which
could have bathed but didn't
believe in it. The Corridor just
couldn't bathe, wash clothes or
clean house, and you could smell
its noxious effluvium from ten
miles out at sea. Welcome to the
Fun Corridor. Sufferers near the
shore would have been happy to
clean up in salt water, but the
Corridor beaches had been polluted
by so much crude oil seepage for
so many generations that they were
all owned by deserving oil
reclamation companies. Keep Out!
No Trespassing! And armed guards.
The rivers and lakes were
electrically fenced; no need for
guard's, just skull and crossbones
signs and if you didn't know what
they were telling you, tough.
Not to believe that everybody
minded stinking as they skipped
merrily over the rotting corpses
in the streets, but a lot did and
their only remedy was perfumery.
There were dozens of competing
companies producing perfumes but
the leader, far and away, was the
Continental Can Company, which
hadn't manufactured cans in two
centuries. They'd switched to
plastics and had the good fortune
about a hundred stockholders
meetings back to make the mistake
of signing a sales contract with
and delivering to some cockamamie
perfume brewer an enormous
quantity of glowing neon
containers. The corporation went
bust and CCC took it over in hopes
of getting some of their money
back. That take-over proved to be
their salvation when the perfume
explosion took place; it gave them
entree to the most profitable
industry of the times.
But it was neck-and-neck with the
rivals until Blaise Skiaki joined
CCC; then it turned into a
runaway. Blaise Skiaki, Origins;
French, Japanese, Black African
and Irish, Education; BA,
Princeton; ME, MIT; PhD. Dow
Chemical, (It was Dow that had
secretly tipped CCC that Skiaki
was a winner and lawsuits brought
by the completion were still
pending before the ethics board.)
Blaise Skiaki; age, thirty-one;
unmarried, straight, genius.
His sense of scent was his genius,
and he was privately, referred to
at CCC as "The Nose." He
knew everything about perfumery;
the animal products, ambergris,
castor, civet, musk; the essential
oils distilled from plants and
flowers; the balsams extruded by
tree and shrub wounds, benzoin,
opopanax, Peru, Talu, storax,
myrrh; the synthetics created from
the combination of natural and
chemical scents, the latter mostly
the esters of fatty acids.
He had created for CCC their most
successful sellers:
"Vulva,"
"Assuage," "Oxter"
(a much more attractive brand name
than "Armpitto"),
"Preparation F,"
"Tongue War," et cetera.
He was treasured by CCC, paid a
salary generous enough to enable
him to live in an Oasis and, best
of all, granted unlimited supplies
of fresh water. No girl in the
Corridor could resist the offer of
taking a shower with him. But he
paid a high price for these
advantages. He could never use
scented soaps, shaving creams,
pomades or depilatories. He could
never eat seasoned foods. He could
drink nothing but pure water. All
this, you understand; to keep The
Nose pure and uncontaminated so
that he could smell around in his
sterile laboratory and devise new
creations. He was presently
composing a rather promising
unguent provisionally named "Correctum,"
but he'd been on it for six months
without any positive results and
CCC was alarmed by the delay. His
genius had never before taken so
long. There was a meeting of the
top-level executives, names
withheld on the grounds of
corporate privilege.
"What's the matter with him
anyway?"
"Has he lost his touch?"
"It hardly seems
likely;"
"Maybe he needs a rest."
"Why, he had a week's holiday
last month:"
"What did he do?"
"Ate up a storm, he told
me."
"Could that be it?"
"No. He said he purged
himself before he came back to
work."
"Is he having trouble here at
CCC? Difficulties with
middlemanagement?"
"Absolutely not, Mr.
Chairman. They wouldn't dare touch
him."
"Maybe he wants a
raise."
"No. He can't spend the money
he makes now."
"Has our competition got to
him?"
"They get to him all the
time. General, and he laughs them
off."
"Then it must be something
personal."
"Agreed."
"Woman-trouble?"
"My God! We should have such
trouble."
"Family-trouble?"
"He's an orphan, Mr.
Chairman."
"Ambition? Incentive? Should
we make him an officer of CCC?"
"I offered that to him the
first of the year, sir, and he
turned me down. He just wants to
play in his laboratory."
"Then why isn't he
playing?"
"Apparently he's got some
kind of creative block."
"What the hell is the matter
with him anyway?"
"Which is how you started
this meeting."
"I did not."
"You did."
"Not."
"Governor, will you play back
the bug."
"Gentlemen, gentlemen,
please! Obviously Dr. Skiaki has
personal problems which are
blocking his genius. We must solve
that for him. Suggestions?"
"Psychiatry?"
"That won't work without
voluntary cooperation. I doubt
whether he'd cooperate. He's an
obstinate gook."
"Senator, I beg you! Such
expressions must not be used with
reference to one of our most
valuable assets."
"Mr. Chairman, the problem is
to discover the source of Dr.
Skiaki's block."
"Agreed. Suggestions?"
"Why, the first step should
be to maintain twenty-four-hour
surveillance. All the
gook's--excuse me-the good
doctor's activities, associates,
contacts." "By CCC?"
"I would suggest not. There
are bound to be leaks which would
only antagonize the good
gook-doctor!" "Outside
surveillance?" "Yes,
sir." "Very good.
Agreed. Meeting adjourned."
Skip-Tracer Associates were
perfectly furious. After one month
they threw the case back into
CCC's lap, asking for nothing more
than their expenses.
"Why in hell didn't you tell
us that we were assigned to a pro,
Mr. Chairman, sir? Our tracers
aren't trained for that:"
"What a minute, please. What
d'you mean, `pro?"' "A
professional Rip:"
"A what?"
"Rip, Gorill, Gimpster,
Crook."
"Dr. Skiaki a crook?
Preposterous."
"Look, Mr. Chairman, I'll
frame it for you and you draw your
own conclusions. Yes?"
"Go ahead."
"It's all detailed in this
report anyway. We put double tails
on Skiaki every day to and from
your shop. When he left they
followed him home. He always went
home. They staked in double
shifts. He had dinner sent in from
the Organic Nursery every night.
They checked the messengers
bringing the dinners. Legit. They
checked the dinners; sometimes for
one, sometimes for two. They
traced some of the girls who left
his penthouse. All clean. So far,
all clean, yes?"
"And?"
"The crunch. Couple of nights
a week he leaves the house and
goes into the city. He leaves
around midnight and doesn't come
back until four, more or
less."
"Where does he go?"
"We don't know because he
shakes his tails like the pro that
he is. He weaves through the
Corridor like a whore or a fag
cruising for trade-excuse me-and
he always loses our men. I'm not
taking anything away from him.
He's smart, shifty, quick and a
real pro. He has to be; and he's
too much for SkipTracers to
handle."
"Then you have no idea of
what he does or who he meets
between midnight and four?"
"No, sir. We've got nothing
and you've got a problem. Not ours
any more:"
"Thank you. Contrary to the
popular impression, corporations
are not altogether idotic. CCC
understands that negatives are
also results. You'll receive your
expenses and the agreedupon
fee."
"Mr. Chairman, I-"
"No, no, please. You've
narrowed it down to those missing
four hours. Now, as you say,
they're our problem."
CCC summoned Salem Burne. Mr.
Burne always insisted that he was
neither a physician nor a
psychiatrist; he did not care to
be associated with what he
considered to be the drek of the
professions. Salem Burne was a
witch doctor; more precisely, a
warlock. He made the most
remarkable and penetrating
analyses of disturbed people, not
so much through his coven rituals
of pentagons, incantations,
incense and the like as through
his remarkable sensitivity to Body
English and his acute
interpretation of it. And this
might be witchcraft after all.
Mr. Burne entered Blaise Skiaki's
immaculate laboratory with a
winning smile and Dr. Skiaki let
out a rending howl of anguish.
"I told you to sterilize
before you came."
"But I did, Doctor.
Faithfully."
"You did not. You reek of
anise, ilang-ilang and methyl
anthranilate. You've polluted my
day. Why?"
"Dr. Skiaki. I assure you
that I-" Suddenly Salem Burne
stopped. "Oh my God!" he
groaned. "I used my wife's
towel this morning."
Skiaki laughed and turned up the
ventilators to full force. "I
understand. No hard feelings. Now
let's get your wife out of here. I
have an office about half a mile
down the hall. We can talk
there."
They sat down in the vacant office
and looked at each other. Mr.
Burne saw a pleasant, youngish man
with cropped black hair, small
expressive ears, high telltale
cheekbones, slitty eyes that would
need careful watching and graceful
hands that would be a dead
giveaway.
"Now, Mr. Burne, how can I
help you?" Skiaki said while
his hands asked, "Why the
hell have you come pestering
me?"
"Dr. Skiaki, I'm a colleague
in a sense; I'm a professional
witch doctor. One crucial part of
my ceremonies is the burning of
various forms of incense, but
they're all rather conventional. I
was hoping that your expertise
might suggest something different
with which I could
experiment"
"I see. Interesting. You've
been burning stacte, onycha,
galbanum, frankincense... that
sort of thing?"
"Yes. All quite
conventional."
"Most interesting. I could,
of course, make many suggestions
for new experiments, and
yet-." Here Skiaki stopped
and stared into space.
After a long pause the warlock
asked, "Is anything wrong,
Doctor?"
"Look here," Skiaki
burst out. "You're on the
wrong track. It's the burning of
incense that's conventional and
old-fashioned, and trying
different scents won't solve your
problem. Why not experiment with
an altogether different
approach?"
"And what would that
be?"
"The Odophone
principle."
"Odophone?"
"Yes. There's a scale that
exists among scents as among
sounds. Sharp smells correspond to
high notes and heavy smells with
low notes. For example, ambergris
is in the treble clef while violet
is in the bass. I could draw up a
scent scale for you, running
perhaps two octaves. Then it would
be up to you to compose the
music."
"This is positively
brilliant, Dr. Skiaki."
"Isn't it?" Skiaki
beamed. "But in all honesty I
should point out that we're
collaborators in brilliance. I
could never have come up with the
idea if you hadn't presented me
with a most original
challenge."
They made contact on this friendly
note and talked shop
enthusiastically, lunched
together, told each other about
themselves and made plans for the
withcraft experiments in which
Skiaki volunteered to participate
despite the fact that he was no
believer in diabolism.
"And yet the irony lies in
the fact that he is indeed
devil-ridden," Salem Burne
reported.
The Chairman could make nothing of
this.
"Psychiatry and diabolism use
different terms for the same
phenomenon," Burne explained.
"So perhaps I'd better
translate. Those missing four
hours are fugues."
The Chairman was not enlightened.
"Do you mean the musical
expression, Mr. Burne?"
"No, sir. A fugue is also the
psychiatric description of a more
advanced form of somnambulism...
sleepwalking."
"Blaise Skiaki walks in his
sleep?"
"Yes, sir, but it's more
complicated than that. The
sleepwalker is a comparatively
simple case. He is never in touch
with his surroundings. You can
speak to him, shout at him,
address him by name, and he
remains totally oblivious."
"And the fugue?"
"In the fugue the subject is
in touch with his surroundings. He
can converse with you. He has
awareness and memory for the
events that take place within the
fugue, but while he is within his
fugue he is a totally different
person from the man he is in real
life. And-and this is most
important, sir-after the fugue he
remembers nothing of it"
"Then in your opinion Dr.
Skiaki has these fugues two or
three times a week."
"That is my diagnosis,
sir."
"And he can tell us nothing
of what transpires during the
fugue?"
"Nothing:"
"Can you?"
"I'm afraid not, sir. There's
a limit to my powers."
"Have you any idea what is
causing these fugues?"
"Only that he is driven by
something. I would say that he is
possessed by the devil, but that
is the cant of my profession.
Others may use different
terms-compulsion or obsession. The
terminology is unimportant. The
basic fact is that something
possessing him is compelling him
to go out nights to do-what? I
don't know. All I do know is that
this diabolical drive most
probably is what is blocking his
creative work for you."
One does not summon Gretchen Nunn,
not even if you're CCC whose
common stock has split twenty-five
times. You work your way up
through the echelons of her staff
until you are finally admitted to
the Presence. This involves a good
deal of backing and forthing
between your staff and hers, and
ignites a good deal of
exasperation, so the Chairman was
understandably put out when at
last he was ushered into Miss
Nunn's workshop, which was
cluttered with the books and
apparatus she used for her various
investigations.
Gretchen Nunn's business was
working miracles: not in the sense
of the extraordinary, anomalous or
abnormal brought about by a
superhuman agency, but rather in
the sense of her extraordinary
and/or abnormal perception and
manipulation of reality. In any
situation she could and did
achieve the impossible begged by
her desperate clients, and her
fees were so enormous that she was
thinking of going public.
Naturally the Chairman had
anticipated Miss Nunn as looking
like Merlin in drag. He was
flabbergasted to discover that she
was a Watusi princess with velvety
black skin, aquiline features,
great black eyes, tall, slender,
twentyish, ravishing in red.
She dazzled him with a smile,
indicated a chair, sat in one
opposite and said, "My fee is
one hundred thousand. Can you
afford it?"
"I can. Agreed."
"And your difficulty-is it
worth it?"
"It is." "Then we
understand each other so far. Yes,
Alex?"
The young secretary who had
bounced into the workshop said,
"Excuse me. LeClerque insists
on knowing how you made the
positive identification of the
mold as extraterrestrial."
Miss Nunn clicked her tongue
impatiently. "He knows that I
never give reasons. I only give
results."
"Yes'N."
"Has he paid?"
"Yes'N."
"All right. I'll make an
exception in his case. Tell him
that it was based on the levo and
dextro probability in amino acids
and tell him to have a qualified
exobiologist carry on from there.
He won't regret the cost."
"Yes'N. Thank you."
She turned to the Chairman as the
secretary left. "You heard
that. I only give results."
"Agreed, Miss Nunn."
"Now your difficulty. I'm not
committed yet. Understood?"
"Yes, Miss Nunn."
"Go ahead. Everything. Stream
of consciousness, if
necessary."
An hour later she dazzled him with
another smile and said,
"Thank you. This one is
really unique. A welcome change.
It's a contract, if you're still
willing."
"Agreed, Miss Nunn. Would you
like a deposit or an
advance?"
"Not from CCC."
"What about expenses? Should
that be arranged?"
"No. My responsibility."
"But what if you have to-if
you're required to-if-"
She laughed. "My
responsibility. I never give
reasons and I never reveal
methods. How can I charge for
them? Now don't forget; I want
that Skip-Trace report."
A week later Gretchen Nunn took
the unusual step of visiting the
Chairman in his office at CCC.
"I'm calling on you, sir, to
give you the opportunity of
withdrawing from our
contract."
"Withdraw? But why?"
"Because I believe you're
involved in something far more
serious than you
anticipated:"
"But what?"
"You won't take my word for
it?"
"I must know."
Miss Nunn compressed her lips.
After a moment she sighed.
"Since this is an unusual
case I'll have to break my rules.
Look at this, sir." She
unrolled a large map of a segment
of the Corridor and flattened it
on the Chairman's desk. There was
a star in the center of the map.
"Skiaki's residence,"
Miss Nunn said.
There was a large circle scribed
around the star. "The limits
to which a man can walk in two
hours," Miss Nunn said. The
circle' was crisscrossed by
twisting trails all emanating from
the star. "I got this from
the Skip-Trace report. This is how
the tails traced Skiaki."
"Very ingenious, but I see
nothing serious in this, Miss
Nunn."
"Look closely at the trails.
What do you see?"
"Why . . . each ends in a red
cross."
"And what happens to each
trail before it reaches the red
cross?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all,
except-except that the dots change
to dashes."
"And that's what makes it
serious."
"I don't understand, Miss
Nunn."
"I'll explain. Each cross
represents the scene of a murder.
The dashes represent the
backtracking of the actions and
whereabouts of each murder victim
just prior to death:"
"Murder!"
"They could trace their
actions just so far back and no
further. Skip-Trace could tail
Skiaki just so far forward and no
further. Those are the dots. The
dates join up. What's your
conclusion?"
"It must be
coincidence," the Chairman
shouted. "This brilliant,
charming young man. Murder?
Impossible!"
"Do you want the factual data
I've drawn up?"
"No, I don't. I want the
truth. Proof-positive without any
inferences from dots, dashes and
dates."
"Very well, Mr. Chairman.
You'll get it."
She rented the professional
beggar's pitch alongside the
entrance to Skiaki's Oasis for a
week. No success. She hired a
Revival Band and sang hymns with
it before the Oasis. No success.
She finally made the contact after
she promoted a job with the
Organic Nursery. The first three
dinners she delivered to the
penthouse she came and went
unnoticed; Skiaki was entertaining
a series of girls, all scrubbed
and sparkling with gratitude. When
she made the fourth delivery he
was alone and noticed her for the
first time.
"Hey," he grinned.
"How long has this been going
on?"
"Sir?"
"Since when has Organic been
using girls for delivery
boys?"
"I am a delivery person,
sir," Miss Nunn answered with
dignity. "I have been working
for the Organic Nursery since the
first of the month."
"Knock off the sir bit."
"Thanks you, s-Dr. Skiaki."
"How the devil do you know
that I've got a doctorate?"
She'd slipped. He was listed at
the Oasis and the Nursery merely
as B. Skiaki, and she should have
remembered. As usual, she turned
her mistake into an advantage.
"I know all about you, sir.
Dr. Blaise Skiaki, Princeton, MIT,
Dow Chemical. Chief Scent Chemist
at CCC."
"You sound like `Who's
Who."
"That's where I read it, Dr.
Skiaki."
"You read me up in `Who's
Who'? Why on earth?"
"You're the first famous man
I've ever met"
"Whatever gave you the idea
that I'm famous, which I'm
not."
She gestured around. "I knew
you had to be famous to live like
this."
"Very flattering. What's your
name, love?"
"Gretchen, sir.".
"What's your last name?"
"People from my class don't
have last names, sir."
"Will you be the delivery
b-person tomorrow, Gretchen?"
"Tomorrow is my day off,
Doctor."
"Perfect. Bring dinner for
two."
So the affair began and Gretchen
discovered, much to her
astonishment, that she was
enjoying it very much. Blaise was
indeed a brilliant, charming young
man, always entertaining, always
considerate, always generous. In
gratitude he gave her (remember he
believed she came from the lowest
Corridor class) one of his most
prized possessions, a five-carat
diamond he had synthesized at Dow.
She responded with equal style:
she wore it in her navel and
promised that it was for his eyes
only.
Of course he always insisted on
her scrubbing up each time she
visited, which was a bit of a
bore; in her income bracket she
probably had more fresh water than
he did. However, one convenience
was that she could quit her job at
the Organic Nursery and attend to
other contracts while she was
attending to Skiaki.
She always left his penthouse
around eleven-thirty but stayed
outside until one. She finally
picked him up one night just as he
was leaving the Oasis. She'd
memorized the Salem Burne report
and knew what to expect. She
overtook him quickly and spoke in
an agitated voice. "Mistuh.
Mistuh." He stopped and
looked at her kindly without
recognition.
"Yes, my dear?"
"If yuh gone this way kin I
come too. I scared."
"Certainly, my dear."
"Thanks, mistuh. I gone home.
You gone home?"
"Well, not exactly."
"Where you gone? Y'ain't up
to nothin' bad, is you? I don't
want no part."
"Nothing bad, my dear. Don't
worry."
"Then what you up to?"
He smiled secretly. "I'm
following something."
"Somebody?"
"No, something."
"What kine something?"
"My, you're curious, aren't
you. What's your name?"
"Gretchen. How 'bout
you?"
"Me?"
"What's your name?"
"Wish. Call me Mr.
Wish." He hesitated for a
moment and then said, "I have
to turn left here."
"Thas okay, Mistuh Wish. I go
left, too."
She could see that all his senses
were pricking, and reduced her
prattle to a background of
unobtrusive sound. She stayed with
him as he twisted, turned,
sometirnes doubling back, through
streets, alleys, lanes and lots,
always assuring him that this was
her way home too. At a rather
dangerous-looking refuse dump he
gave her a fatherly pat and
cautioned her to wait while he
explored its safety. He explored,
disappeared and never reappeared.
"I replicated this experience
with Skiaki six times," Miss
Nunn reported to CCC. "They
were all significant. Each time he
revealed a little more without
realizing it and without
recognizing me. Burne was right.
It is fugue."
"And the cause, Miss
Nunn?"
"Pheromone trails."
"What?"
"I thought you gentlemen
would know the term, being in the
chemistry business. I see I'll
have to explain. It will take some
time so I insist that you do not
require me to describe the
induction and deduction that led
to my conclusion.
Understood?"
"Agreed, Miss Nunn."
"Thank you, Mr. Chairman.
Surely you all know hormones, from
the Greek hormaein, meaning `to
excite'. They're internal
secretions which excite other
parts of the body into action.
Pheromones are external secretions
which excite other creatures into
action. It's a mute chemical
language.
"The best example of the
pheromone language is the ant. Put
a lump of sugar somewhere outside
an ant hill. A forager will come
across it, feed and return to the
nest. Within an hour the entire
commune will be single-filing the
pheromone trail first laid down
quite undeliberately by the first
discoverer. It's an unconscious
but compelling stimulant."
"Fascinating. And Dr. Skiaki?"
"He follows human pheromone
trails. They compel him; he goes
into fugue and follows them."
"Ah! An outer aspect of The
Nose. It makes sense, Miss Nunn.
It really does. But what trails is
he compelled to follow?"
"The death-wish."
"Miss Nunn!"
"Surely you're aware of this
aspect of the human psyche. Many
people suffer from an unconscious
but powerful deathwish, especially
in these despairing times.
Apparently this leaves a pheromone
trail which Dr. Skiaki senses, and
he is compelled to follow
it."
"And then?"
"Apparently he grants the
wish."
"Apparently!
Apparently!" the Chairman
shouted. "I ask you for
proof-positive of this monstrous
accusation."
"You'll get it, sir. I'm not
finished with Blaise Skiaki yet.
There are one or two things I have
to wrap up with him, and in the
course of that I'm afraid he's in
for a shock. You'll have your
proof-pos-"
That was a half-lie from a woman
half in love. She knew she had to
see Blaise again but her motives
were confused. To find out whether
she really loved him, despite what
she knew? To find out whether he
loved her? To warn him or save him
or run away with him? To fulfill
her contract in a cool,
professional style? She didn't
know. Certainly she didn't know
that she was in for a shock from
Skiaki.
"Were you born blind?"
he murmured that night.
She sat bolt upright in the bed.
"What? Blind? What?"
"You heard me."
"I've had perfect sight all
my life."
"Ah. Then you don't know,
darling. I rather suspected that
might be it."
"I certainly don't know what
you're talking about, Blaise."
"Oh, you're blind all
right," he said calmly.
"But you've never known
because you're blessed with a
fantastic freak facility. You have
extrasensory perception of other
people's senses. You see through
other people's eyes. For all I
know you may be deaf and hear
through their ears. You may feel
with their skin. We must explore
it some time."
"I never heard of anything
more absurd in all my life,"
she said angrily.
"I can prove it to you, if
you like, Gretchen."
"Go ahead, Blaise. Prove the
impossible."
"Come into the lounge."
In the living room he pointed to a
vase, "What color is
that?"
"Brown, of course."
"What color is that?" A
tapestry.
"Gray."
"And that lamp?"
"Black."
"QED," Skiaki said.
"It has been
demonstrated."
"What's been
demonstrated?"
"That you're seeing through
my eyes."
"How can you say that?"
-
"Because I'm color-blind.
That's what gave me the clue in
the first place."
"What?"
He took her in his arms to quiet
her trembling. "Darling
Gretchen, the vase is green. The
tapestry is amber and gold. The
lamp is crimson. I can't see the
colors but the decorator told me
and I remember. Now why the
terror? You're blind, yes, but
you're blessed with something far
more miraculous than mere sight;
you see through the eyes of the
world. I'd change places with you
any time."
"It can't be true," she
cried.
"It's true, love."
"What about when I'm
alone?"
"When are you alone? When is
anybody in the Corridor ever
alone?"
She snatched up a shift and ran
out of the penthouse, sobbing
hysterically. She ran back to her
own Oasis nearly crazed with
terror. And yet she kept looking
around and there were all the
colors: red, orange, yellow,
green, indigo, blue, violet. But
there were also people swarming
through the labyrinths of the
Corridor as they always were,
twenty-four hours a day.
Back in her apartment she was
determined to put the disaster to
the test. She dismissed her entire
staff with stern orders to get the
hell out and spend the night
somewhere else. She stood at the
door and counted them out, all
amazed and unhappy. She slammed
the door and looked around. She
could still see.
"The lying
son-of-a-bitch," she muttered
and began to pace furiously. She
raged through the apartment,
swearing venomously. It proved one
thing; never get into personal
relationships. They'll betray you,
they'll try to destroy you, and
she'd made a fool of herself. But
why, in God's name, did Blaise use
this sort of dirty trick to
destroy her? Then she smashed into
something and was thrown back. She
recovered her balance and looked
to see what she had blundered
into. It was a harpsichord.
"But . . . but I don't own a
harpsichord," she whispered
in bewilderment. She started
forward to touch it and assure
herself of its reality. She
smashed into the something again,
grabbed it and felt it. It was the
back of a couch. She looked around
frantically. This was not one of
her rooms. The harpsichord. Vivid
Brueghels hanging on the walls,
Jacobean furniture, Linenfold
paneled doors, Crewel drapes.
But . . . this is the . . . the
Raxon apartment downstairs. 1 must
be seeing through their eyes. I
must . . . he was right. I . . : '
She closed her eyes and looked.
She saw a melange of apartments,
streets, crowds, people, events.
She had always seen this sort of
montage on occasion but had always
thought it was merely the total
visual recall which was a major
factor in her extraordinary
abilities and success. Now she
knew the truth.
She began to sob again. She felt
her way around the couch and sat
down, despairing. When at last the
convulsion spent itself she wiped
her eyes courageously, determined
to face reality. She was no
coward. But when she opened her
eyes she was shocked by another
bombshell. She saw her familiar
room in tones of gray. She saw
Blaise Skiaki standing in the open
door smiling at her. - "Blaise?"
she whispered.
"The name is Wish, my dear.
Mr. Wish. What's yours?"
"Blaise, for God's sake, not
me! Not me. I left no death-wish
trail."
"What's your name, my dear?
We've met before?"
"Gretchen," she
screamed. "I'm Gretchen Nunn
and I have no death-wish."
"Nice meeting you again,
Gretchen," he said in glassy
tones, smiling the glassy smile of
Mr. Wish. He took two steps toward
her. She jumped up and ran behind
the couch.
"Blaise, listen to me. You
are not Mr. Wish. There is no Mr.
Wish. You are Dr. Blaise Skiaki, a
famous scientist. You are chief
chemist at CCC and have created
many wonderful perfumes."
He took another step toward her,
unwinding the scarf he wore around
his neck.
"Blaise, I'm Gretchen. We've
been lovers for two months. You
must remember. Try to remember.
You told me about my eyes tonight
. . . being blind. You must
remember that."
He smiled and whirled the scarf
into a cord.
"Blaise, you're suffering
from fugue. A blackout. A change
of psyche. This isn't the real
you. It's another creature driven
by a pheromone. But I left no
pheromone trail. I couldn't. I've
never wanted to die."
"Yes, you do, my dear. Only
happy to grant your wish. That's
why I'm called Mr. Wish."
She squealed like a trapped rat
and began darting and dodging
while he closed in on her. She
feinted him to one side, twisted
to the other with a clear chance
of getting out the door ahead of
him, only to crash into three
grinning goons standing shoulder
to shoulder. They grabbed and held
her.
Mr. Wish did not know that he also
left a pheromone trail. It was a
pheromone trail of murder.
"Oh, it's you again,"
Mr. Wish sniffed.
"Hey, old buddy-boy, got a
looker this time, huh?"
"And loaded. Dig this
layout"
"Great. Makes up for the last
three which was nothin'. Thanks,
buddy-boy. You can go home
now."
"Why don't I ever get to kill
one?" Mr. Wish exclaimed
petulantly.
"Now, now. No sulks. We got
to protect our bird dog. You lead.
We follow and do the rest."
"And if anything goes wrong,
you're the setup," one of the
goons giggled.
"Go home, buddy-boy. The rest
is ours. No arguments. We already
explained the standoff to you. We
know who you are but you don't
know who we are."
"I know who I am," Mr.
Wish said with dignity. "I am
Mr. Wish and I still think I have
the right to kill at least
one."
"All right, all right. Next
time. That's a promise. Now
blow."
As Mr. Wish exited resentfully,
they ripped Gretchen naked and let
out a huge wow when they saw the
five-carat diamond in her navel.
Mr. Wish turned and saw its
scintillation too. "But
that's mine," he said in a
confused voice. "That's only
for my eyes. I-Gretchen said she
would never-" Abruptly Dr.
Blaise Skiaki spoke in a tone
accustomed to command:
"Gretchen, what the hell are
you doing here? What's this place?
Who are these creatures? What's
going on?"
When the police arrived they found
three dead bodies and a composed
Gretchen Nunn sitting with a laser
pistol in her lap. She told a
perfectly coherent story of
forcible entry, an attempt at
armed rape and robbery, and how
she was constrained to meet force
with force. There were a few
loopholes in her account. The
bodies were not armed, but if the
men had said they were armed Miss
Nunn, of course, would have
believed them. The three were
somewhat battered, but goons were
always fighting. Miss Nunn was
commended for her courage and
cooperation.
After her final report to the
Chairman (which was not the truth,
the whole truth and nothing but
the truth) Miss Nunn received her
check and went directly to the
perfume laboratory, which she
entered without warning. Dr.
Skiaki was doing strange and
mysterious things with pipettes,
flasks and reagent bottles.
Without turning he ordered,
"Out. Out. Out."
"Good morning, Dr. Skiaki."
He turned, displaying a mauled
face and black eyes, and smiled.
"Well, well, well. The famous
Gretchen Nunn, I presume. Voted
Person of the Year three times in
succession."
"No, sir. People from my
class don't have last names."
"Knock off the sir bit."
"Yes s-Mr. Wish."
"Oi!" He winced.
"Don't remind me of that
incredible insanity. How did
everything go with the
Chairman?"
"I snowed him. You're off the
hook."
"Maybe I'm off his hook but
not my own. I was seriously
thinking of having myself
committed this morning."
"What stopped you?"
"Well, I got involved in this
patchouli synthesis and sort of
forgot."
She laughed. "You don't have
to worry. You're saved."
"You mean cured?"
"No, Blaise. Not any more
than I'm cured of my blindness.
But we're both saved because we're
aware. We can cope now."
He nodded slowly but not happily.
"So what are you going to do
today?" she asked cheerfully.
"Struggle with
patchouli?"
"No," he said gloomily.
"I'm still in one hell of a
shock. I think I'll take the day
off."
"Perfect. Bring two
dinners."
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