"Have you tried shipping it by space freight?" Grantwell asked.
"I have. But they told me that the Interstellar Space Flight Premise had been suspended this year, and therefore they were unable to help me".
"Did you ask them what was supposed to happen to your nephew?"
"They said that they would provisionally have to deny his existence until the Premise was reinstated."
"That's government for you," Grantwell said. "Leaves you — or rather young Mishkin — in quite a spot."
"Is there anything your organization can do to help the lad?" asked Uncle Arnold.
"There is," Grantwell said, firmly. "Continuities, Inc was designed to create connections between incompatible assumptions. We will design a scenario that will provide a link between these two different realities without doing violence to either."
"That's wonderful," Uncle Arnold said.
And so it came to pass that all the toads were smoothed over and various elephants were secretly enlisted. The next step was more severe: suitable gapping material had to be found, heads had to be turned, performances judged. Spontaneity died in Kansas City and was replaced by probity.
Gigantic mechanisms were turned loose upon a suspecting Earth. Various marches were organized. The input factory increased outputs. Crimson dagles carried darkness and invisibility. People decided things. There was a necessary series of transactions conducted via radio and involving a compromise about permissible ratios of feeling.
Nor was this all. The world stood revealed in dark vestments. Certain facts of long-established limpidity died aborning. The strain on the normative cause-and-effect linkages was tremendous. Voices were raised in protest. Outright revolt was threatened.
The author, in the meantime, had formed a dismal awareness of the difficulties involved. He toyed with various possibilities, even considered killing Mishkin off and starting a new book — a cookbook, perhaps. Still…
67. Peregrinations
"Damn it all," said Mishkin, "another zero-null game."
The engine part could be seen in all its splendour, isolated in the author's mind. It was a hazy visualization, sometimes resembling a pot roast, at other times a Citroen 2 cv.
The part sounded like a rock band. It smelt like a butane burner.
68. Certificate of Unreality
Mishkin was resting in a glade. The robot was enjoying a pseudo-rest, since he didn't need a real rest. Mishkin looked up and became aware that someone was striding across the sward towards him.
"Hello, there," said The Man of a Thousand Disguises. "I'm in charge of this sequence. I have come here in person to formalize a resolution."
"What are you talking about?" Mishkin asked. "I'm just waiting here for a spaceship part."
The Man grimaced. "I'm terribly sorry about that, but you see, we are no longer entertaining that premise. The whole conception of you on an alien planet, waiting for a spaceship part — well, it had been declared dramatically unsound. Therefore, we are scrapping it."
"Does that mean that you are also scrapping me?"
The Man looked at him unhappily. "Well, yes, I'm afraid that it does. We have found a new hero to take your place."
THE NEW HERO
He was complicated, devious, terribly attractive, masculine, universal. He had idiosyncracies, habits, traits. He had soul, pzazz, vital juices. He had a sex life. He had a complicated and ambiguous history. He had a little mole to the left of his nose. He had satanic eyebrows. He was a knockout.
"This is your replacement," said The Man. "You've done your best, Mishkin. It's no fault of yours if you've gotten into this untenable situation. But really, we must end this thing, and to do that we need some cooperation from our characters, and you — well, you simply don't have any characteristics for us to work with."
Mishkin instantly developed a facial tic, a stammer, a way of biting his lips before and after speaking, a moustache, and a removable false tooth.
"Sorry, it's not quite what we had in mind," said The Man. "Now, I will just leave you boys to get acquainted." The Man turned himself into a tree.
MR MISHKIN MEETS MR HERO
"How do you do?" Mishkin said.
"How do you do?" said Mr Hero.
"Would you care for a nice cup of coffee?" said Mishkin.
"Thanks, that would be nice," said Mr Hero.
Mishkin poured coffee. They sipped in silence.
Mr Hero said, "Nice weather we've been having."
"Where?" Mishkin said.
"Oh, in Limbo," said Mr Hero. "I've been waiting there with the other archetypes."
"It's been nice here, too," Mishkin said.
The tree changed into The Man. "Interact!" he hissed and turned into a tree again.
Mr Hero smiled diffidently. "Rather an awkward situation, isn't it?"
"I suppose it is," Mishkin said. "Personally, ever since I started this thing I've been in just one awkward situation after another. Maybe a rest would do me good."
"Yes," said Mr Hero. "But before that, it would be terribly good of you to explain the ropes to me. I mean, new man on the job, and all that…" He broke off with an embarrassed laugh.
"Well," Mishkin said, "there's not much to explain. You just go along and things happen to you."
"But that's rather — passive — isn't it?"
"Sure, it is. But it's that kind of adventure."
"What about motivation?" asked Mr Hero.
"As far as I know," Mishkin said, "you're looking for a spaceship part."
"A what?"
"A part to replace a broken part in your spaceship. Without it your spaceship won't run. And that means you can't get back to Earth. And you do want to get back to Earth—that's an unspoken assumption that I personally think ought to be examined. Anyhow, that's your motivation."
"I see," said Mr Hero. "Not much you can get your teeth into, is there?"
"It's no Oedipus Rex," Mishkin admitted. "But then, what is?"
Mr Hero chuckled appreciatively. "That's terribly true, what is, indeed? Well, now, who is this other chap?"
"He's a robot," Mishkin said.
"Why is he here?"
"I can't remember the original reason. But mainly he's here so that you won't have to talk to yourself."
Mr Hero looked at the robot apprehensively. "My mother was raped by a robot," he remarked. "That's her story. The robot said that he mistook her for a refrigerator. I've felt dodgy about robots ever since. Is this robot a nice robot?"
The robot looked up. "Yes," he said, "I'm a nice robot, especially when people have the common courtesy to address me as if I am here when I am here, rather than speaking as if I weren't here, which, frankly, the way things are going these days, I'd just as soon rather not be."
"Prolix, isn't he?" said Mr Hero.
"If you don't like it," said the robot, "you can always stuff it up your nose."
Mr Hero rolled his eyes, then abruptly giggled.
The Man transformed himself from a tree into The Man. "That's it," he said. "I'm sorry, Mr Hero, but you don't seem to be the type we had in mind."
"So where's that at?" Mr Hero said haughtily, "Can I help it if you don't know what you're doing?"
"Go back at once to the collective pool of the unconscious," said The Man.
Mr Hero vanished with hauteur.
"Now we're back where we started from," Mishkin said.
"That was my line," the robot said.
"Shut up," said The Man. "I gotta think." He sat down upon a rock — a tall, sombre, light-haired man with a moustache and a terribly attractive way with women. His long, strong fingers rippled as he tapped them on one bony knee. There were dark shadows hiding his smouldering eyes. He was a knockout. But he wasn't happy. No, he wasn't happy. Perhaps he would never be happy. Had not Dr Lifshultz told him once, "Happiness is just a thing called Joe." And The Man's name was not Joe. So he was not happiness nor were any of his pursuits or practices.