Damon Knight - Orbit 15

The auburn-haired girl, she of the slit dress, said: “Then that man at the piano who looks like Napoleon must be Napoleon.”

“No, that’s his brother Joseph; I don’t think Napoleon’s here right now.”

The Tibetan (leaning forward, so that his robe opened to show a hairless chest puckered with old scars) said: “It is the use of temporal arresters—such is my own opinion—which have rendered delectable these celebrations.” He was talking half to the auburn-haired girl, half to the birdcage girl, totally to John Edward. “So. One pays one’s fee. One receives a machine so subtle that it is in a card contained. One attends. When wishes, one absents. That, too, is good. One returns at the time of absenting.”

“Damned good,” the Englishman put in, “for sweating up conversational crushers. You’ve all the time in the world. If you’ve got the card.”

“I don’t,” John Edward said.

“Didn’t think you had, really.”

The birdcage woman, who no longer had a birdcage in her hair, but wore instead chaste coiled braids, said: “The card lets you sparkle as a wit—be Queen of Diamonds. And it’s a Chance card, because when you leave, you Go to Jail out there.” She drew John Edward’s hands to her until they were cupping her breasts. “Do you like my Community Chest?”

“Very much,” John Edward said. The auburn-haired girl stood up and waved her glass, shouting, “Everybody’s under temporal arrest!” No one paid any attention.

“High cost for cardholders,” the Tibetan continued. “Oh, high cost. Others selected for interesting people, as I. Or look nice.” He made a little bow toward the (ex)birdcage woman.

Who said to John Edward: “Would you in the dark?”

“Yes, but it’s better with a nightlight.”

“Or candle,” the Tibetan.

The auburn-haired girl: “Or with a bar sign outside. I was born under Aquarius, but conceived over the sign of the Pig and Whistle.”John Edward watched her hair to see if it had changed, but it had not.

“Under a blanket at noon,” the Englishman said. “Had a Belgian girl up to my room at Shepheard’s like that once. I was on Allenby’s staff then . . .”

“Many are tulpas,“ remarked the man from the Farther Stars, who was passing by once again, and seemed to remember with gratitude the light the Tibetan had given him. “At least ten percent.” (His voice was water dashing against stone.)

“But would you in the dark?” the braided-haired blond woman continued to John Edward. “If I asked you.”

He nodded.

“A Belgian girl,” the Englishman continued. “Refugee. Didn’t know if the Boche would ever be out of Belgium—none of us did then—and would do anything. The colonel one night and the sergeant the next. She’s saving you, m’boy. Going to save your bacon—save your sausage. Ha ha!” He hit John Edward on the shoulder.

“What’s a tulpa?” the auburn-haired girl asked the Tibetan.

“For a little while,” the blond woman said. Her hair was straight now, the style John Edward liked best, but it seemed a trifle too young for her. “Not anything that would disgust you, darling.”

He stared at her, uncomprehending.

“Ten years. Ten little years, darling. That’s nothing. With all they can do now—and I have money, darling—it’s less than nothing. In the dark, sweetheart, promise.”

The Englishman said: “He’s a tulpa, old girl. Why bother. A nice chap, but a tulpa. I knew at once. Look at those shoulders. See how regular his features are? Handsome devil, eh? Not greasy at least, like so many of them.”

“What’s a tulpa?” the auburn-haired girl asked John Edward.

“I don’t know.” John Edward turned to the Englishman. “What do you mean, when you say she’s saving me?”

“For her old age, you idiot. You flick off the lights and she flicks out for a quarter century or so. Then when no lover will have her, back she comes. One doesn’t know in the dark, eh? Not unless the gal’s been gone a devil of a long time.”

“Please,” the blond woman said to the Englishman. “You didn’t have to.”

“The chap’s a tulpa, I tell you. If that’s what you want, you can get an adept to stir one up for you anytime.”

“But don’t you understand? I knew him when I was young.”

“Certain lamas,” the Tibetan was telling the auburn-haired girl, “learn siddhis to flesh images from mind-stuff. Much same as ghosts, but never lived. Has been stolen and perverted in West, as all things.”

“Can’t understand how the blasted Chinese could conquer your country if you could do that,” the Englishman said. “Inexhaustible armies.”

The man from the Farther Stars, who was leaning over the auburn-haired girl’s shoulder now (and peeking down her dress, John Edward thought), moved his head rhythmically from side to side. “Sunspots,” he said. “Sunspots destroy tulpas.”

John Edward said, “But between—”

The man from the Farther Stars continued to shake his head. “Always sunspots on the sun, sun-where.”

The auburn-haired girl stood up, ducking from under his white marble chin. “I’m going to be sick,” she said. “Take me to a lavatory.”

She was looking at John Edward, and he stood too, and took her hand, saying, “This way.” He had not the least idea where he was, and discovered that the end table beyond the sofa was a rosebush. They were in the garden. Sober up, he thought, trying to give himself orders. Sober up, sober up, straighten out. Find a restroom.

The auburn-haired girl said, “At least we’re away from those terrible people.”

“Aren’t you really sick?”

“Oh, yes I’m sick. Oh, Lord, am I.” She was clinging to his arm. “And drunk. Am I drunk. Are they staring at me? I can’t even tell.”

The ramp of the airship was in front of them. There would be bathrooms on that; there would have to be.

“The last time my hair went in the toilet. Will you hold it up for me? You can lie down with me afterwards. I want to lie down afterwards; I want to go to bed.”

Somewhere a cock crowed.

It could not be heard, of course. It was a hundred miles away, out in the country. But it crowed, and the sun came up, and people went out like candles in the wind.

From the top of the ramp he looked back and saw them go, their glasses crashing to the flagstoned paths and brick-paved patios, their cigarettes dropping like poisoned fireflies.

“I loved you,” the girl said. “Or at least I liked you. You’ll be gone in a moment and I can’t even ask you to kiss me, because I’m going to be sick.”

“We’re still here,” John Edward told her, “both of us.” And she was gone.

He walked down the ramp and into his apartment, stamping out every cigarette he saw. Sunshine was making hard shadows on the walls, and the airship vanished like mist. “Mr. Richbastard,” he said to himself. “I wonder how much all those tulpas cost me.”

The garden vanished, and the walls of the apartment rushed in, growing dirty as they came. He sat up. His head was splitting, and he thought that he was going to be sick to his stomach. The book was still propped open on his dresser where he had left it. His eyes were too gummy to read the print, but he remembered it: “Repeat, ‘I am the sound of an owl’s wings, the heartbeat of a banyan tree.’ “ He closed the book, and noticed that the hair on the back of his hand was gray; tried to remember how old he really was, then made himself stop.

In the next apartment the washing machine said: “Sun-where, sun-where, sun-where,” then “sunspots destroy tulpas, ” as it switched to Rinse.