Warren Murphy - Lost Yesterday

He got out of the room just in time to make it to the shower. With his last ounce of energy, he kicked the large button on the floor and the room flooded with a harsh hot spray. Dolomo lay down to conserve his vanishing breath. When he felt the spray stop he put the container into a small vat and pushed the vat to a small conveyor belt set into one wall.

Rubin Dolomo cut himself free of the suit with an X-Acto knife and a great deal of effort. When he regained his breath he met the little container again in another room, but this time he was separated from it by a glass wall fitted with protective rubber arms. The container had been jostled along the conveyor route and now it rested on its side. Rubin slipped his arms into the rubber sheaths set into a window and set it right atop a little table. On the table was a single sheet of pink stationery and a matching envelope addressed to a former Poweressence devotee, one who felt he had been robbed. With his rubber fingers, Rubin opened the container of fresh formula, then took a small cotton swab from underneath the table and dipped it into the vial. He dabbed a touch of the formula in the upper-left-hand corner of the pink sheet of paper. Then he put the swab back into the formula and resealed the container.

Now came the hard part. Rubin had to fold the paper and put it in the envelope. Using rubber hands, this simple task took twenty minutes. By the time he was finished Rubin was sweating.

He lit a cigarette, threw a Valium and a high-blood pressure pill into his mouth, and then wheezed his way to a reception room, where the messenger waited for the letter.

He was a middle-aged executive who credited his rise to the vice-presidency of his corporation to his new self-confidence, and he credited his confidence to Poweressence. He believed that the United States government was persecuting the one religion that could save the world. He had nurtured that belief in an Idaho chapter.

Rubin had paid the chapter chairman fifteen hundred dollars for this volunteer. But he was worth it.

“Let me get this straight. I make sure no one but the traitor touches the upper-left-hand corner of the letter inside this envelope. I go directly to the building he is being kept in, and I announce that I am a friend who has a message from his sweetheart. And that is it. Simple.”

With that, the executive opened the letter just to make sure that his perception of an upper-left-hand corner jibed with Rubin Dolomo's. That determined, he shook hands with the man who had pulled his life back from the brink of wretchedness.

“Mr. Dolomo, you are one of the great minds of our time. And I am honored, deeply honored, to have this opportunity to serve Poweressence.”

“Watch the letter. Your finger is touching the corner. Watch the letter.”

“What letter?” asked the executive.

“The one in your hand,” said Rubin.

The executive looked down at his hand and the pink paper, which he was gripping by the corner.

“Did you just give me this letter? Or am I supposed to give it to you? Who is it for?”

“All right,” said Rubin wearily. “Put down that thing you have in your hand. We're going to the recovery rooms.”

The executive handed the letter to Rubin. Rubin stepped back.

“Put it down. Down. On the floor. Down,” said Rubin. Then he guided the man by an elbow to the rear of the mansion.

“Tell me,” said Rubin. “If you had a choice of something to play with, would it be a rattle, a toy train, a video game, or a woman and fifth of bourbon?”

“A choice? Wonderful. Why are you so nice?”

“It helps us figure which room you go in.”

“I'll take the bourbon,” said the executive.

“Good,” said Rubin. “You didn't get much. I'm getting pretty good with dosages.”

They passed one room that was a din of screaming. The executive could not help peering in a small glass opening in the door. The inside was a horror. Grown men and women were rolling around on the floor, some wetting their pants, others pulling hair, still others were crying.

“I didn't know the dose then,” said Rubin. “But we take care of them. We are a responsible religion.”

“That's awful,” said the executive. “There's a grown man there sucking his thumb.”

“That's Wilbur Smot.”

“He's smiling.”

“A lot of them do,” said Rubin. “How do you feel?”

“Not that good. Average, really. I just can't seem to recall what I'm doing here.”

“Do you remember joining Poweressence?”

“I remember taking a character test back in Norfolk, Virginia. Did I join?”

“You'll be all right in a while,” said Rubin.

They passed another room full of grown-ups but these were engrossed in electric trains and dolls. In the next room, a middle-aged woman with neon-blue hair and plastic jewelry played a video game. The final room was more to the executive's liking. It was a lounge, with soft music and a bar where he could help himself.

“You remember your address in Norfolk?” asked Rubin.

“Sure,” said the executive.

“Then take yourself a drink, and go home.”

“What is this? What is all this?”

“This is the latest scientific advancement created by one of the great minds of the Western world. And Eastern world, too. It is a gift to mankind from the great spiritual and scientific leader Rubin Dolomo,” said Rubin.

“Doesn't he run Poweressence?”

“He has brought that enlightenment, yes,” said Rubin.

“I remember seeing a picture of him. Yes. On a book cover, I think. Good book, too.”

“Do you notice any resemblance?” asked Rubin, pushing back the thin remnants of his once full flowing hair.

“None.”

“Well, then, forget the drink. Just get out of here,” he said.

“Fine. I don't know what I'm doing here anyway.”

Rubin went into the lounge and poured himself a stiff drink. He had the formula prepared, which was good. Now he needed another delivery person. This had cost them too much already. But the entertainment rooms were necessities. Because the formulas' effects could vary widely, Poweressence had to have a good test of the memory remission of someone affected by the formula. A fresh spill could send the deliverer back into childhood if he touched it with bare skin. Once the formula had dried, it could be counted on to shave a year or two off of the memory if touched within a week. Beyond that, somehow it got so powerful it was too dangerous to use. Rubin had spent a half-dozen lives finding out how to make the stuff and deliver it. Sometimes he thought he might slip a few drops into Beatrice's coffee and send her back to childhood. There was one horrible thought that stopped him. If Rubin should ever miss and Beatrice should find out, Rubin's life would be worth less than yesterday's garbage. Beatrice was ruthless.

A full-bodied woman sidled up to him.

“Hi,” she said.

“Save it,” said Rubin. “I run the place.”

“Do you want some? You're paying for it.”

Rubin looked longingly at the round rich curves, at the young curves, at the curves he wanted in his hands. But Beatrice meant more to him than a single wild exotic fling with a bar girl they had hired to work the recovery rooms. In her own way Beatrice had established a protocol for affection. She might, if she needed it to reaffirm her womanliness, take young men. Rubin might, if he needed other female companionship, face the loss of his sexual organs through the pounding of a frying pan upon those sensitive parts. Rubin, therefore, had been as faithful as a monk throughout the years.

“Thank you, no,” said Rubin. He had to buy another Powie, another dedicated devotee of Poweressence. The problem with getting a good one, one who truly believed, was that the Powie was worth anywhere from three to five thousand dollars a year in Poweressence courses. If he lost one, like those now kept in the rehab rooms, he could safely multiply those figures by ten to cover all the years of lost revenues. Every chapter franchise could understand that. They would withhold a percentage of the Dolomo dues until that loss was recouped.