An argument offered itself. He said, "Well, for Gorse it's like being
inducted into a secret society which really does have secrets, and
they work."
"I see," she said slowly. She was studying his face intently, seeking
clues beyond words from his expression. "But is that -- well, is that
the truth?"
"Maybe it's part of the truth." A reminiscent smile quirked one corner
of his mouth. "Hugo & Diana wouldn't agree."
"Who?"
"Hugo & Diana Peasmarsh. Fashion designer."
"I'm sorry, the name means nothing to me."
"Come to think of it, I'm not surprised. He gets mentioned in the papers
now and then, but she has a very exclusive clientele. Anyhow, for what
it's worth, he puts it all down to her just reward for initiative and
application. Anybody could get where he is, in her view. There's something
unworldly about Hugo & Diana."
"I'm getting a bit confused," Barbara said after a pause. "There are
other people who have the kind of -- of luxury life you do? And these
are the ones you're talking about?"
"That's right. Except that most of them, in fact to my knowledge all of
them, don't want to know what's really going on. They prefer to disguise
the truth from themselves."
"How?"
"Well . . . Well, Luke Powers, for instance: he thinks all he does
is meditate when -- Oh, I suppose that's something I ought to warn
you about." He looked anywhere but at her; the steady gaze of those
penetrating eyes was becoming hard to bear. "You may accidentally run
across Gorse and find she doesn't recognize you. Don't worry. It's
quite normal."
"Normal, not to recognize your own mother?"
"It's . . . It's the price. We all find a way of being able not to mind."
He started to speak more quickly, almost gabbling. "I was trying to tell
you. Ambrose, for example: he thinks of it as communion with the infinite.
He's a student of the arcane sciences, and of course for him they actually
work, because that's what he wanted. You can consult him about any sort
of crap -- astrology, numerology, whatever -- and you'll get a fair and
honest answer. Lots of people do. But he's been getting deeper and deeper
into black magic recently, and I'm not happy about that. He was a disciple
of Aleister Crowley, you see, so his capacity for self-deception is
tremendous."
Before Barbara could interrupt, he rushed on. "Irma's pretty much like
him. She's a beautician, and she can work what anyone else would think
of as miracles with the most unpromising raw material. She's terribly
proud of the way the Top People come to her, even if they're only pop
groups with a hit single. She thinks it's because she has guidance
from the spirit world. So she goes into retreat now and then. Whereas
with Hermann -- he's a psychiatrist -- it's all very scientific. For
him it's a question of learning to tap the resources of the collective
unconscious; when you get the hang of that, you can do anything. But it
doesn't really make any difference, you see, how you think about it."
He was halfway to gabbling by now. "Take Wilf Burgess! Did I mention him
to you? I think I may have. For him it's all part of the romantic life of
a jazzman to go on a blinder occasionally, to get so drunk or stoned that
you can't remember what you've been doing when you wake up after three
or four days completely out of touch. And of course because he is such a
fabulous trumpeter nobody can argue with him. He always has stand-ins,
anyhow, to keep the tourists happy. And Bill Harvey -- that's Gorse's
landlord at the moment -- he believes in luck charms, spells and cantrips
and amulets. He wins every bet he places. That's his special pleasure,
even though he's been banned from every betting shop and racecourse and
football pool in the country. He just loves to be right. Doesn't care
about the money. Why should he? Like me, he has everything he wants
without needing the money to buy it." Godwin finally ran out of breath.
"But you mentioned payment," Barbara pressed.
He surrendered entirely, giving a nod as his shoulders slumped.
"Now and then you -- " He hesitated. "You do things you don't know about.
I mean, it isn't you who does them. Not very often, mind! Usually it's
more often near the beginning, like once or twice a month for two or three
days together. Later on it may be only two or three times a year, and
just for a day. And of course you get a reward which makes it worthwhile."
"What do you mean, a reward?"
"Well . . . Well, being a success at what you most want to do. The trimmings
don't really count, not for most of us, though it is fun to have -- oh --
a car like mine, or a place like this to live." He waved to indicate the
apartment. "But some people, I suspect, didn't know how to get what they
wanted until it happened. Maybe this answers your question about Gorse
and her lack of talent!" he added with rising enthusiasm. "For instance,
I just told you about Hermann. He's right at the top of his tree, and he
owes it to . . . Oh, I suppose you'd say a partner. A creature. Nothing
like you ever saw in your life. And Irma loves growing things. She has the
most extraordinary flowers you can imagine; they walk about by themselves!
But all this is . . ." He checked and swallowed, having decided not to
mention Hugo & Diana again.
"All this is
secondary
," he achieved at last. "What really matters is
that every time you -- you sort of
lend
yourself, you get paid back with
a special experience. I can't vouch for the others, but what I always
wish for is the chance to remember doing something I can be proud of."
He thought the words fumbling and inaccurate; however, she seemed to
perceive their full implications without further ado.
"Like rescuing me," she said.
"Yes. Yes, that's exactly it!" Hastily he made sure she did completely
understand. "That's why I didn't forge my newspaper cutting. There's
always -- not always, but pretty often -- something you can keep as a
souvenir. That's what I got, that time. That and the medal, of course."
"Possession," she said.
He blinked incomprehension.
"Possession," she said again, and started to stride up and down, giving
him an occasional nervous glance. "You must know the term! I never
thought I'd literally meet someone who was possessed of the devil,
but it all fits, and -- you know something? I never met anybody in my
life who scared me half as much as you do. Because you're so damnably
matter-of-fact about it!"
"Devils have nothing to do with it!" he exploded. But honesty forced him
to add, "I suppose at one time that may have been how people regarded it,
but -- No, it's silly."
"You've told me about all these friends of yours who have what you call
wrong ideas about what happens, communing with the infinite and astral
planes and the rest of it. What's your view? You must have one!"
He sat statue-still for at least a quarter of a minute while conflicting
possibilities churned in his head. It wasn't too late, even now, to use
the flex on her, to wipe her memory clean of all save tantalizing glimpses
of what she had learned, elusive as the remnants of a dream. He could
scarcely believe that he had been able to tell her as much as he had;
every passing moment made him more afraid of the pangs of punishment,
even perhaps to the ultimate degree inflicted on Hamish.
Paradoxically, though, thinking about Hamish made him more, not less,
eager to talk. That death had somehow offended him. And he had already
been offended, by the fact that his "proof" of having a right to his
George Medal was no proof at all, and even someone as uneducated as Bill
Harvey had seen through the pretense. Moreover, recollection of the time
when he had been abandoned rankled in his mind. It had been like all
his worst nightmares combined, without hope of an ending until it came.
His faith, in short, had been undermined. He had been let down by those
in whom he reposed his ultimate trust. He had witnessed an aspect of them
which he had never suspected and which he had been led to believe did not
exist.
He did not take kindly to being cheated.
Accordingly, heedless of the risk of being punished, he headed for the
bar and poured himself a stiff whisky. The effects of what he had drunk
with his Hawaiian lunch were wearing off, and he needed Dutch courage.
His back to Barbara, carefully screwing the top back on the bottle,
he said, "Pets. That's what we are. Irma and Bill and Luke and Ambrose
and Hermann and everybody else I know. Gorse as well, of course."
He turned to face her and said it again: " Pets!"
For a long moment she stared at him, seeming baffled, and then she gave
a harsh laugh.
"Really? And who exactly do you belong to?"
He gave a shrug, returning to his chair. "I just think of them as the
owners," he muttered. "I don't know very much about them. You see,
you never remember much about the times when -- well, when you lend
yourself, as I said. Though now and then you wake up with a sort of
recorded message in your head: go to such a place, when you get there
do this and that. That's how I met Gorse, except that she thought I'd
already met her."
"What?"
"It's too bloody complicated to explain!" he snapped. "And it never
makes any difference in the long run."
"I see. Part of the deal, isn't that what you'd call it?"
"Yes, I suppose so." He gulped his whisky, welcoming its harsh taste.
"But the police traced you here for me," Barbara said after a brief pause.
"And in Hawaii you were worried about my not having a passport. Why isn't
immunity from police and officialdom included, too? I asked before and
you didn't answer."
"In a way it is," Godwin sighed. "You can always use the flex."
"The -- ?"
"I don't know why it's called that. I'm not even sure all of us use the
same name. It's what I did to Roadstone and his buddies, to make them
disremember me. It takes a lot of effort, though. I was too hungry and
unwell to work it on you too, or you wouldn't be here."
"I'm thankful for small mercies, she said with a wry smile that came
nowhere near her eyes. "But isn't it very difficult in a complex society
like ours to keep from attracting attention?"
"It gets worse," he admitted. "But . . . Well, I have the impression the
owners don't understand much about people. Oh, they know which of our
buttons to press -- they give us food and drink and clothes and sex and
all the rest. But I don't think they understand about things like laws
and taxes and so on -- probably not even about money, since it obviously
doesn't matter to them. Frankly I don't think they care. At any rate they
seem to shy away from people with real responsibilities in the world."
He was enjoying this. He hadn't known how many private thoughts and
reflections had accumulated in his mind; he was listening to himself
with a kind of astonishment.
"At least I don't know any of -- well, the 'owned' who are in positions
of actual power. No politicians, no big-company bosses, nobody like that.
A doctor, a psychiatrist, a musician, a couple of hoteliers, a beautician,
a fashion designer, a professional gambler . . . Me, a gentleman of
leisure!" He tossed back the rest of his drink and threw the glass
inaccurately at a wastebasket; it failed to break and rolled on the
carpet, spilling a last clear trace of its contents.
"What do you think the owners get out of it?"
He spread his hands. "I don't know. Maybe experiences they can't have
for themselves? It would fit. I think of them -- when I do think of them,
which isn't often -- as being like invisible angels with a hankering for
the fleshpots. 'In heaven is neither marriage nor giving in marriage' --
nor getting stoned or drunk or sick from overeating. Like a guy from a big
city going hunting, pretending he's a wild barbarian like his ancestors,
but knowing there's a hot bath and a change of clothes and a bottle of
wine waiting when he gets home."
She nodded thoughtfully, seeming completely caught up in his chain of
reasoning.
"You said angels. What about devils, though? I know you said they don't
have anything to do with it, but -- "
He cut her short.
"Yes, of course you're right. I don't know how long this has been going
on -- thousands of years? Millions? -- but it does fit. I don't know much
about that sort of thing, but I did read about that guy you mentioned. Uh
-- Forst?"
"Faust?"
"I suppose so. Well, he wanted to make wine come out of tables, and get
laid by Helen of Troy, and all like that, and it's pretty damn close to
the way I live, isn't it?"
"Mm-hm" -- with a nod. "So in the old days people would think they'd
sold their soul to the powers of darkness, while nowadays they choose
some alternative explanation."
"Mostly. I think Ambrose -- remember I mentioned him? -- I think he'd
like to believe he's sold his soul, but he's too commonsensical. Wanting
to become the best astrologer in the country, he asked for, and got, a
full-scale computer. Souls and computers don't seem to belong together,
somehow."
He hesitated, gazing at her curiously.
"You seem to have calmed down, I must say. Do you still think I did that?"
"What?"
"Sold my soul, and Gorse's too. That's what you were telling me a few
minutes ago."
"So I was." She had ceased her pacing and was leaning against the bar
with one elbow on the counter. "And I was quite right, as you've just
demonstrated."
"I didn't -- "
"Don't jump down my throat! You said yourself, in the old days that's how
people would have thought of it. The fact that the description changes
doesn't alter the event. Fire's still fire, even if nowadays it's oxygen
and not phlogiston that makes it burn."
He shook his head foggily. "You lost me on that one."
"Never mind." She stood up straight, gazing levelly at him. "This fact
stands. It's the worst fate I could possibly wish on anyone, and I
would never in a million years wish it on my daughter, much though I
sometimes hate her guts. Take me to where she is. Take me to where she
can be expected to turn up eventually, if that's the best you can do.
I want to have a shot at saving her from your kind of damnation."
Angry, he leaped to his feet. "Stop talking nonsense! I've told you,
she's perfectly all right! Or she will be, soon as she gets the hang of
what's going on. Then she'll live for much longer than -- than you! How
old do you think I am? You said thirty-two, and you were wrong."