Robert Wilson - The Illuminatus! Trilogy

"I-I don't know what you mean," she said. She was starting to break, George thought. In another minute she'd be blurting out all her fears to him. Well, for Christ's sake, he didn't know where Goodman was.

"Look," he said sharply, pushing back against the flow of emotion coming through to him, "if you hear from Inspector Goodman, tell him if he wants to know more about the Bavarian Illuminati he should call George Dorn at the Hotel Tudor. That's D-O-R-N, Hotel Tudor. Have you got that?"

"The Illuminati! Look, uh, Mr. Dorn, whatever you want to tell, you can tell me. I'll pass it on to him."

"I can't do that, Mrs. Goodman. Thank you, now. Good-bye."

"Wait! Don't hang up."

"I can't help you, Mrs. Goodman. I don't know where he is, either." George dropped the phone into its cradle with a sigh. His hands were cold and moist. Well, he'd have to tell Hagbard he couldn't reach Inspector Goodman. But he had learned something- that Saul Goodman, who was supposed to be investigating Joe Malik's disappearance, had himself disappeared, and the words "Bavarian Illuminati" meant something to his wife. George crossed the small room and turned on the TV. The noon news would be on. He went back to his bed, lay down and lit a cigarette. He was still exhausted, from his sexual bout of the night before with Tarantella Serpentine.

The announcer said, "The Attorney General has announced that he will speak at six this evening on the early morning epidemic of gangland-style assassinations at widely separated locations all over the country. The death toll from killings of this type has reached twenty-seven, though, local officials refuse to say whether all- or any- of these deaths are connected. Among those shot are Senator Edward Coke Bacon; two high-ranking Los Angeles police officers; the mayor of a town called Mad Dog, Texas; a New York fight promoter; a Boston pharmacist; a Detroit ceramicist; a Chicago Communist; three New Mexico hippie leaders; a New Orleans restaurateur; a barber in Yorba Linda, California; and a sausage manufacturer in She-boygan, Wisconsin. There were bomb explosions at fifteen locations, killing thirteen more people. Six persons around the country have disappeared, and four of these were seen being forced into cars at different times last night and this morning. The Attorney General today called this 'a reign of terror perpetrated by organized crime,' pointing out that though the motives for the widely scattered slayings is obscure they bear the earmarks of gangster killings. However, new FBI director 3eorge Wallace, who has ordered FBI agents around the country into action, issued a written statement declaring- quote-'Once again the Attorney General has treed the wrong coon, proving that law enforcement should be left to the experienced professionals. We have reason to think that these murders are the work of Negro Communists directed from Peking.'-end of quote. Meanwhile, the office of the Vice President has issued an apology to the Italian-American Anti-Defamation League for his reference to 'Mafioso rubouts' and the League has withdrawn its picket line from the White House. Remember, the Attorney General will address the nation at 6 P.M. tonight." The announcer suddenly changed his facial expression from neutral newscaster to pugnacious patriot. "Certain dissident elements keep complaining that people don't get a chance to participate in decisions made by their government. Yet, at a time like this, when the whole nation has an opportunity to hear the Attorney General, the ratings are not always as good as they should be. So let's do everything we can to build up those ratings tonight, and let the whole world know that this is still a democracy."

"Fuck!" George shouted at the screen. He didn't recall TV newscasters being that obnoxious. Must be a fairly recent development, something that had happened after he left for Mad Dog-maybe a late outgrowth of the Fernando Poo crisis. It was in this very hotel, George remembered, just after the bloody Fernando Poo demonstrations at the UN that Joe Malik had first broached the subject of Mad Dog. Now Joe had disappeared, not unlike those people who, as George knew, the Syndicate had snuffed in earnest of their good intentions, having accepted Hagbard's gift of objets d'art. Not unlike Inspector Saul Goodman who perhaps had gone down the same rabbit hole as Joe.

There was a knock at the door. George went to it, turning off the TV set in passing. It was Stella Maris.

"Well, glad to see you, baby. Strip off that dress and come over to the bed, so we can reaffirm my initiation rites."

Stella put her hands on his shoulders. "Never mind that now, George. We've got things to worry about Robert Putney Drake and Banana Nose Maldonado are dead. Come on. We've got to get back to Hagbard right away."

Traveling first by helicopter, then by executive jet and finally by motorboat to Hagbard's Chesapeake Bay submarine base, George was exhausted and dazed in terror's aftermath. He rallied when he saw Hagbard again.

"You motherfucker! You sent me to get goddam killed!"

"And that has given you the courage to tell me off," said Hagbard with an indulgent smile. "Fear is a funny thing, isn't it, George? If we weren't afraid of dying of diseases, we'd never develop the science of microbiology. That science in turn creates the possibility of germ warfare. And each superpower is so afraid that the others may wage germ warfare against it, each develops its own plagues to wipe out the human race."

"Your mind is wandering, you stupid old fart," said Stella. "George isn't kidding about nearly being killed."

"The fear of death is the beginning of slavery," Hagbard said simply.

Even though it was early, George found himself on the verge of collapse, ready to sleep for twenty-four hours or more. The submarine's engines vibrated under his feet as he trudged to his cabin, but he wasn't even curious about where they were going. He lay down on his bed, and picked a book off the headpost bookshelf, part of his getting-ready-for-sleep ritual. Sexuality, Magic and Perversion said the binder. Well, that sounded juicy and promising. Author named Francis King, whoever that is. Citadel Press, 1972. Only a few years ago. Well, then. George opened at random:

Within a few years Prater Paragranus had become Chief of the Swiss section of the OTO, had entered into friendly relationships with the disciples of Aleister Crowley- notably Karl Germer - and had established a magazine. Subsequently Prater Paragranus inherited the chieftainship of Krumm- Heller's Ancient Rosicrucian Fraternity and the Patriarchate of the Gnostic Catholic Church-this latter dignity he derived from Chevillon, murdered by the Gestapo in 1944, who was himself the successor of Johnny Bricaud. Prater Paragranus is also the head of one of the several groups who claim to be the true heirs and successors of the Illuminati of Weishaupt as revived (circa 1895) by Leopold Engd.

George blinked. Several Illuminati? He had to ask Hagbard about this. But he was already beginning to visualize into hypnogogic revery and sleep was coming.

In less than a half-hour, Joe had distributed ninety-two paper cups of tomato juice containing AUM, the drug that promised to turn neophobes into neophiles. He stood in Pioneer Court, just north of the Michigan Avenue Bridge, at a table from which hung a poster reading FREE TOMATO JUICE. Each person who took a cupful was invited to fill out a short questionnaire and leave it in a box on Joe's table. However, Joe explained, the questionnaire was optional, and anyone who wanted to drink the tomato juice and run was welcome to do so.

AUM would work just as well either way, but the questionnaire would give ELF an opportunity to trace its effect on some of the subjects.

A tall black policeman was suddenly standing in front of the table. "You got a permit for this?"