"It does on Earth," Mishkin said. "But I suppose there are advantages to being invisible."
"Oh, yes. We used to get a lot of pleasure out of springing out at people and saying boo. But now, everyone around here knows about us and no one is frightened anymore, they just tell us to go fuck off."
"I suppose that being invisible is an advantage when you go hunting?"
"Not really. We invisibles tend to be pretty heavy-footed, so we make a lot of noise when we hunt, unless we stand perfectly still. Because of this we tend to hunt only a single species of animal. We call them the Unhearables, since they are all totally deaf.
Against them our invisibility is a great advantage. But the Unhearables make rather mediocre eating, even potted and served with bechamel sauce."
"I always thought that an invisible creature would have an edge over everything else," Mishkin said.
"That's what everybody thinks," the invisible said. "But really, invisibility is just a kind of handicap."
"That's too bad," Mishkin said politely.
There was a short, uncomfortable silence.
"What do you look like?" Mishkin asked.
"Can't say, old man. Invisible, you know. Makes shaving difficult. Watch out!"
Mishkin had blundered into an invisible object and had given himself a severe rap on the forehead. He walked more slowly now, with one hand stretched out in front of him.
"How did you see that invisible object?" he asked.
"Didn't see it, old man," the invisible told him. "Saw the identification marker."
Looking around him, Mishkin could see various metal plaques set into the ground.
These were engraved with self-translating characters (required by interstellar law), which made them as easy to read as English is to the average literate Englishman.
Ahead of him were plaques marked, "Rock", "Clump of Cactus", "Abandoned Volkswagen Microbus", "Unconscious Person", "Withered Fig Tree", "Lost Dutchman Mine", and the like.
"That's very considerate," Mishkin said, threading his way between "Trash Heap" and "Tourist Office".
"It's purely selfish," the invisible said. "We got tired of bumping into those things ourselves."
"How did those things become invisible?" Mishkin asked.
"Some sort of contamination. For a while everything is all right, we go about our business, get our work done. Then the objects we associate with begin to grow dim, and then they vanish entirely. For example, one fine morning a bank president finds that he can't find his own bank. No one knows if the street lights are on or off. Invisible milkmen try to deliver invisible milk in invisible bottles to the invisible occupants of invisible houses. The results are comico-pathetic. Everything gets a bit mixed up."
"So you put out the plaques," Mishkin said.
"No, we use the plaques only for outlying areas. Inside the city limits, we paint everything with visible paint."
"Does that solve the problem?"
"It's a big help, but the system has certain flaws. Repainted paintings suffer an inevitable aesthetic loss. Painted people often have skin reactions. But the major flaw is that the visible paint itself tends to become invisible after varying lengths of contact with invisible objects. We try to handle this by a continual repainting programme based upon statistical, positional, and temporal charts of all objects in the city. But even given the efficiency of our programme, many things still get lost. There are incalculable variables, you see: despite stringent quality controls, no two batches of visible paint are completely identical in their characteristics. Each batch is affected uniquely by the different combinations, intensities, and durations of temperature-humidity interactions. The changing planetary and lunar relationships may also be a factor. And there are other factors still under investigation."
The invisible sighed. "We try not to give way to despair. Our scientists work continually on the project of making ourselves permanently visible. Some call it a visionary and unrealistic hope; but we know that others, such as yourself, have achieved the bliss of visibility. So why not us?"
"I never thought it would be like this," Mishkin said. "I had always thought that it would be fun to be invisible."
"Don't you believe it," the invisible said. "Invisibility is just about the same as being blind."
19
Desert gave way to semi-desert. Mishkin and the robot walked through a flat, arid wasteland, past lost dirt roads, stunted shrubs, and an occasional deserted frame house.
They crossed a little rise and saw a man in a tuxedo with a tall black hat on his head sitting on a black metal suitcase. In front of him were rusty railroad tracks that stretched for fifty feet on either side.
"Christ," the robot said, "another creep."
"Don't be rude," Mishkin told him. He walked up and greeted the stranger.
"About time someone came along," the stranger said. "I've been sitting here for two days, and I don't mind telling you it's getting pretty boring."
"What are you waiting for?" Mishkin asked.
"The 12:10 from Yuma," the stranger said, turning to the left and looking down the fifty feet of track. "But they don't run the trains on time any more."
"I don't think this particular train runs at all any more," Mishkin said.
"I wouldn't be surprised," the stranger said. "It does seem unlikely, taking everything into consideration. But I sure as hell can't walk any more. And maybe something'll happen and the train will come by. I've seen stranger things happen. Strange things do happen for me. I suppose you know who I am."
"I'm afraid that I don't," Mishkin said.
"You must be pretty ignorant because I'm pretty famous. In this manifestation I am Ronsard the Magnificent, and I am probably the greatest magician the universe has ever seen."
"Lotta crap," the robot mumbled.
"Don't let appearances deceive you," Ronsard said. "There is a reason why I am currently playing whistle-stops and waiting for nonexistent trains in freaky places. Karma catches up with us all, eh? But something always turns up. Would you like to witness some magic?"
"I would like that very much," Mishkin said.
"It's a lotta bullshit," the robot said.
Ronsard ignored the sullen mechanical. "For my first number I will do the rabbit trick."
"I've seen it," the robot said.
"I haven't," Mishkin said. "So kindly shut up."
The robot leaned back and crossed his arms. A mean, sceptical smile was upon his metallic face, and the very angles of his body spelled disbelief. Mishkin leaned forward eagerly, his hands clasped around his knees. The very attitude of his body spelled willingness to be astonished.
Ronsard opened up his suitcase and took out a complicated control board, two automobile batteries, a jumble of wires, three circuit boards, a flask filled with a murky-looking fluid, and a small accelerometer. He hooked up wires between these objects and connected them to a red and black lead that he attached to the brim of his hat. He took out a circuit tester and tested. Then he turned to Mishkin.
"You will observe, my dear sir, that the hat is empty," He showed his hat to Mishkin and the robot, who yawned.
"Now, then," the magician said. He took a white satin cloth from his suitcase and laid it over the hat. Then he made passes with his right hand and said, "Rje-Sgampo Rinpoche-hi Lam Mchog Rinpoche Hi Hrheng-wa Zhes Bya-wa Bzhugs-so." At last he kicked the control board with his right heel.