"I mean, like, don't you want me to fill out an application form?
"Certainly not. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a wristwatch-shaped thing. Cowpersmith could not see all of the inside of the drawer from his angle, but he was nearly sure there was nothing else in it. He handed it to Cowpersmith and said, "Once you put it on it won't come off by itself, but we'll unlock it any time you want to quit. That's all. Go have fun. By which, he added, "I don't actually mean screwing, because we've got plenty of records of that already.
"What then? asked Cowpersmith, disconcerted.
"Hell, man! Up to you. Water skiing, skin diving, breaking the bank at Monte Carlo. What do you dream about, when things look bad'? You do dream, don't you?
"Well, sure, but- Cowpersmith hesitated, thinking. "I always wanted to eat at La Tour d'Argent. And, uh, there's this crazy poison fish they have in Japan-
"Sounds good, the man said without enthusiasm. "I'll have your card delivered to you at your hotel tomorrow.
"Yes, but wait a minute. What's the catch'?
"No catch, Tud, said Shirley, annoyed. "Jesus, what does it take to convince you?
"Nothing like this ever happened to me before. There has to be something wrong with it.
"No there doesn't, said Mr. Morris, "and I have to get busy on your card.
Cowpersmith found himself standing up. "No, wait, he said. "How-how long does the job last?
Shrug. "Until you get bored, I guess.
"Then what?
"Then you turn in your recordings. And you take your last week's pay and go look for another job.
"Recordings? Cowpersmith looked down at his wrist, where, without thinking about it, he had clasped on the metal object. is this a tape recorder?
"I'm not into that part of it, Mr. Morris said. "I only know my job, and I've just done it. Good-by.
And that was all she wrote. At Shirley's urging, Cowpersrnith checked into a small but very nice hotel on the Upper East Side, went to a massage parlor, ice-skated at Rockefeller Center, and met Shirley for a late drink in a Greek bar in Chelsea. "Good start, she said. "Now you're on your own. Got any plans?
"Well, he said experimenta~ly, "I think I can still make the Mardi Gras in Rio. And I heard about a safari tour to Kenya-
"Travel, huh. Why not'? She finished her drink. "Well, we'll keep in touch--
"No, take it easy, he said. "I don't understand some things.
"There isn't any reason for you to understand. Just enjoy.
"I tried to call Murray, but he's gone off somewhere-
And you're going too, right? Look, she said, "you're going to ask some probably very important questions, to you, but all I know's my own job
"Which is?
"-which is none of your business. Go enjoy. When Mr. Morris wants to he in touch with you he'll be in touch with you. No. Don't ask how he'll find you. He'll find you. And so good night.
And so, for eight dynamite months, Tud Cowpersmith enjoyed. He did everything he had ever wanted to do. He made the carnival in Rio and discovered hearts-of-palm soup in a restaurant overlooking the Copacabana beach. He rode a hydrofoil around Leningrad and toured the Hermitage, bloated on fresh caviar. Gypsy violins in Soho, pounded abalone on Fisherman's Wharf, a nude-encounter weekend at Big Sur, high-stakes gambling in Macao. First-class stewardesses on half a dozen airlines began to recognize him, in half a dozen languages. Shirley turned up once, in his suite at the George Cinq, but only to tell him he was doing fine. Another time he thought he saw Murray pushing a scooter at the Copenhagen airport, but he was going one way and Murray another, and there was no way for Cowpersmith to get off the moving person carrier to catch him. He took up motorcycle racing and tried to enjoy listening to the harpsichord and, in spite of what Morris had said, repeatedly and enthusiastically enjoyed a great deal of sex. It was at the time of his second case of gonorrhea that he began to feel enough was very nearly enough, and then one morning his phone rang.
"Cowpersrnith? said Mr. Morris' tinny little voice, very far away. "You don't seem to be having a lot of fun right now. Are you about ready to quit?
Although the pleasure had not been quite as much pleasure lately, the prospect of losing it was very much pain. "No! yelped Cowpersmith. "What are you talking about? Hell, man, you should see the girl I just- He looked around; he was alone in the big bed. "I mean, I've got this date-
"No, whispered the small voice, "that's not good enough. Your EI's been down for three weeks now. Not below the threshold yet. We can still get a little good stuff from you. But the quality's definitely down, Cowpersmith, and something's got to be done about it.
Dismayed, Cowpersmith sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed. "How do you know about-what is it, my EI'?
"Emotional index? Well, what do you think, man? We continuously monitor the product, and it just isn't what we want.
"Yeah, Cowpersmith conceded. "Look, I just woke up and I'm a little fuzzy, but- He got out of bed, car- rying the phone, and sat in a chair by the window. Outside was Grosvenor Square, with a demonstration going on in front of the American Embassy, so he knew he was in the Europa in London.
"But what, Cowpersrnith?
"But I'll think of something. Hold on.
By this time the staff of the hotel had learned to value him and understand his likes, so the floor waiter, alerted by the incoming phone call, was bringing in his black coffee, American style, with two large glasses of fresh orange juice. Cowpersrnith swallowed a little of one and a little of the other and said, "Listen, can you give me an idea of what he likes?
"Who likes?
"Whoever it is is paying for all this stuff.
"I can't discuss our clients, said Mr. Morris. "They told me not to.
"Well, can you give me some idea?
"No. I don't know what you've been doing; the monitor doesn't show that. It shows where you are and how you're feeling. That's it. We won't know exactly what you've been up to until the debriefing, when they study the recordings. Me, I'll never know. Not my department.
"Well, don't you have any idea what kind of stuff they like?
"Mostly, any kind of stuff they haven't had before.
"Hah! Cowpersmith thought wildly. "Listen, how's this? Has anybody just sort of sat and meditated for you?
Pause. "You mean like religious meditation? Like some kind of guru?
"Well, yes. Or just sitting and thinking, like, you know, Thoreau at Walden Pond.
"I give it forty-eight hours, said Mr. Morris.
"Or-well, how about skin diving? Again. The doctor told me to lay off for a little while until my ear healed up after Bermuda, but I heard about this neat stuff at the Great Barrier Reef, and-
"Cowpersmith, said the tiny voice, "you know what you're costing? Not counting the half a thousand a week in cash. Your charge has been running over forty-eight hundred a week, on the average. You got to show more than some spearfishing maybe a couple weeks from now. You got to show today. And tomorrow. And every day. So long.
So Cowpersmith kept at it. The meditation didn't seem to be going well after the first hour, so he hired a new travel consultant and for a while things looked bright. Or bright enough. Maybe. He backpacked across the Trinity Mountains and flew to Naples for a swim in the Blue Grotto. He ate couscous and drank akvavit and smoked Acapulco gold, all in their native environment. Then he took a pack mule through the Montana hills, and flew back to Naples for four hours of clambering around the ruins of Pompeii, and hit Paris for nightclubs and Waikiki for surfing...
... But a couple of wipeouts at Diamond Head made his ear feel worse, and one nightclub turned out to be an awful lot like another, except that where the toilet jokes were in French he couldn't understand them. He knew the phone was going to ring again. He didn't need the little machine on his wrist to tell him he was down. He felt down.