Alfred Bester - The Demolished Man

yours." And went to bed. And screamed at The Man With No Face.

Wednesday morning, Reich visited Monarch's Science-city ("Paternalism, you know.") and spent a stimulating hour with its bright young men. He discussed their work and their glowing futures if they would only have faith in Monarch. He told the ancient dirty joke about the celibate pioneer who made the emergency landing on the hearse in deep space (and the corpse said: "I'm just one of the tourists!") and the bright young men laughed subserviently, feeling slightly contemptuous of the boss.

This informality enabled Reich to drift into the Restricted Room and pick up one of the visual knockout capsules. They were cubes of copper, half the size of fulminating caps, but twice as deadly. When they were broken open, they erupted a dazzling blue flare that ionized the Rhodopsin---the visual purple in the retina of the eye---blinding the victim and abolishing his perception of time and space.

Wednesday afternoon, Reich went over to Melody Lane in the heart of the theatrical district and called on Psych-Songs, Inc. It was run by a clever young woman who had written some brilliant jingles for his sales division and some devastating strike-breaking songs for Propaganda back when Monarch needed everything to smash last year's labor fracas. Her name was Duffy Wyg&. To Reich she was the epitome of the modern career girl---the virgin seductress.

"Well, Duffy?" He kissed her casually. She was as shapely as a sales-curve, pretty, but a trifle too young.

"Well, Mr. Reich?" She looked at him oddly. "Some day I'm going to hire one of those Lonely-Heart Peepers to case your kiss. I keep thinking you don't mean business."

"I don't."

"Dog."

"A man has to make up his mind early, Duffy. If he kisses girls he

kisses his money goodbye." "You kiss me." "Only because you're the image of the lady on the credit." "Pip," she said. "Pop," he said. "Bim," she said. "Bam," he said. "I'd like to kill the bem who invented that fad," Duffy said darkly.

"All right, handsome. What's your problem?"

"Gambling," Reich said. "Ellery West, my Rec director, is complaining about the gambling in Monarch. Says there's too much. Personally I don't care."

"Keep a man in debt and he's afraid to ask for a raise."

"You're entirely too smart, young lady."

"So you want a no-gamble-type song?"

"Something like that. Catchy. Not too obvious. More a delayed action

than a straight propaganda tune. I'd like the conditioning to be more or

less unconscious." Duffy nodded and made quick notes. "And make it a tune worth hearing. I'll have to listen to God knows

how many people singing and whistling and humming it." "You louse. All my tunes are worth hearing." "Once." "That's a thousand extra on your tab." Reich laughed. "Speaking of monotony..." he continued smoothly. "Which we weren't." "What's the most persistent tune you ever wrote?" "Persistent?" "You know what I mean. Like those advertising jingles you can't get

out of your head." "Oh. Pepsis, we call 'em." "Why?"

"Dunno. They say because the first one was written centuries ago by a character named Pepsi. I don't buy that. I wrote one once..." Duffy winced in recollection. "Hate to think of it even now. Guaranteed to obsess you for a month. It haunted me for a year."

"You're rocketting."

"Scout's honor, Mr. Reich. It was `Tenser, Said The Tensor.' I wrote it for that flop show about the crazy mathematician. They wanted nuisance value and they sure got it. People got so sore they had to withdraw it. Lost a fortune."

"Let's hear it."

"I couldn't do that to you."

"Come on, Duffy. I'm really curious."

"You'll regret it"

"I don't believe you."

"All right, pig," she said, and pulled the punch panel toward her.

"This pays you back for that no-guts kiss."

Her fingers and palm slipped gracefully over the panel. A tune of utter monotony filled the room with agonizing, unforgettable banality. It was the quintessence of every melodic cliche Reich had ever heard. No matter what melody you tried to remember, it invariably led down the path of familiarity to "Tenser, Said The Tensor." Then Duffy began to sing:

Eight, sir; seven, sir;

Six, sir; five, sir;

Four, sir; three, sir;

Two, sir; one!

Tenser, said the Tensor.

Tenser, said the Tensor.

Tension, apprehension,

And dissension have begun.

"Oh my God!" Reich exclaimed. "I've got some real gone tricks in that tune," Duffy said, still playing. "Notice the beat after `one'? That's a semicadence. Then you get

another beat after `begun.' That turns the end of the song into a semicadence, too, so you can't ever end it. The beat keeps you running in circles, like: Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun. RIFF. Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun. RIFF. Tension, appre---"

"You little devil!" Reich started to his feet, pounding his palms on

his ears. "I'm accursed. How long is this affliction going to last?" "Not more than a month." "Tension, apprehension, and diss---I'm ruined. Isn't there any way

out?"

"Sure," Duffy said. "It's easy. Just ruin me." She pressed herself against him and planted an earnest young kiss. "Lout," she murmured. "Pig. Boob. Dolt. When are you going to drag me through the gutter? Clever-up, dog. Why aren't you as smart as I think you are?"

"I'm smarter," he said and left.

As Reich had planned, the song established itself firmly in his mind and echoed again and again all the way down to the street. Tenser, said the Tensor. Tenser, said the Tensor. Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun. RIFF. A perfect mind-block for a non-Esper. What peeper could get past that? Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun.

"Much smarter," murmured Reich, and flagged a Jumper to Jerry Church's pawnshop on the upper west side. Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun.

Despite all rival claims, pawnbroking is still the oldest profession. The business of lending money on portable security is the most ancient of human occupations. It extends from the depths of the past to the uttermost reaches of the future, as unchanging as the pawnbroker's shop itself. You walked into Jerry Church's cellar store, crammed and littered with the debris of time, and you were in a museum of eternity. And even Church himself, wizened, peering, his face blackened and bruised by the internal blows of suffering, embodied the ageless money-lender.

Church shuffled out of the shadows and came face to face with Reich, standing starkly illuminated in a patch of sunlight slanting across the counter. He did not start. He did not acknowledge Reich's identity.

Brushing past the man who for ten years had been his mortal enemy, he

placed himself behind the counter and said: "Yes, please?"

"Hello, Jerry."

Without looking up. Church extended his hand across the counter. Reich attempted to clasp it. It was snatched away.

"No," Church said with a snarl that was half hysterical laugh. "Not that, thank you. Just give me what you want to pawn."

It was the peeper's sour little trap, and he had tumbled into it. No matter.

"I haven't anything to pawn, Jerry."

"As poor as that? How the mighty have fallen. But we must expect it, eh? We all fall. We all fall."

Church glanced sidelong at him, trying to peep him. Let him try. Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun. Let him get through the crazy tune rattling in his head.

"All of us fall," Church said. "All of us."

"I expect so, Jerry. I haven't yet. I've been lucky."

"I wasn't lucky," the peeper leered. "I met you."

"Jerry," Reich said patiently. "I've never been your bad luck. It was your own luck that ruined you. Not---"

"You God damned bastard," Church said in a horribly soft voice. "You God damned eater of slok. May you rot before you die. Get out of here. I want nothing to do with you. Nothing! Understand?"