"Send him up," I said.
I felt a strong need to empty my bladder.
"Excuse me, Glory," I said. "Won't be but a minute."
After I'd switched on the light and closed the bathroom door behind me, however, I'd a feeling it might be a little more than a minute. It had to do with the way my reflection maintained eye contact while talking to me:
"Alf," it said, "don't try to make it a dialogue. Just listen. I am your earlier self, and this message is a post-hypnotic implant. It could only be set off if you were working on the soul-swapper story, had returned for information concerning the assignment, and had a message that your boss was on his way to see you. That triggered the bladder reflex and the present ambience is stimulus for the rest. You must remember that I am Paul Jensen—meaning that you were Paul Jensen. This will self-explain in a few minutes. I have ranged up and down several decades to set this up. The rest should self-explain later. Ask Jerry all the questions you were going to ask him. Then, afterwards, ask him to dowse your apartment. This is very important. We've concealed—"
There came a knocking on the door.
"Yes?" I asked.
"I believe your boss is just outside," she said.
"Wait a minute. Don't let him in," I told her. "First, go to the shorter chest of drawers, across the room from the foot of the bed. Third drawer down. Get me a fresh pair of shorts."
"Sure thing, Alf."
The post-hypnotic had not included any special relief for the micturition response. Hence, my bladder had decided to take care of itself while I listened to my earlier self, and I hadn't even noticed till Glory knocked. I'd have to remember that if I ever set up another of these. Too bad about the end of the message, though.
There came a short knock, the door opened a few inches, and a slim hand entered, bearing a pair of my shorts.
"Thanks."
After cleaning myself and tossing the damp ones into the hamper, I let myself out and followed the voices to the living room.
"Jerry," I said, "thanks for being so prompt. This is Glory. She works at—"
"Yes, we've met," he responded, wringing my hand more briskly than usual. He took a step toward a chair, paused, and said, "Terribly busy week. You have some problem with the current job?"
"No, no problem," I said. "Just something concerning how it came about. Sit down and let me get you a cup of coffee—or something stronger, if you'd like."
He made a show of looking at his watch.
"What the hell. Make it a Scotch and soda," he said.
"Glory?"
"A tough, dry, red wine."
"Okay."
"What's wrong with this picture?" I said. "I got the soul-changer assignment."
"It's your sort of story. You've always enjoyed investigating the oddball, off-the-beaten-track sort of thing."
"Agreed. But this time there was more to it—some directive, some pressure, some caution to secrecy."
He sighed and stared into his glass. Then he nodded and took a sip.
"Yes, there was a telephone call. From one of the publishing company's owners. He said he wanted the story covered now. And he wanted you to do it. I was not to mention his name."
"How about half of his name?" I asked. "Like if I were to say 'Paul'?"
"And I were to say 'Jensen'?"
"Yes," I replied. "Actually, it's fairly innocuous. We're related, and it looks like he thought he was doing me some sort of favor. It is my sort of thing, and he knew the place was not all that well-known. I think he wanted to give me an exclusive."
I took a drink.
"I'd rather you didn't mention I told you," he said.
"No, I won't. Nothing really turns on it now. I just wanted to check on a suspicion."
"I'll have to start being nicer to you."
I laughed. "One more thing," I said, "and you're ahead of the game."
"What's that?"
"I'd like you to dowse the apartment."
"Thinking of digging a well?"
"No, but I've misplaced something and I've heard that you guys can find anything."
"That's my old man. I'm rusty."
"Please."
"Sure. Get me a wire coathanger."
I went off to a closet and brought one back for him. He crimped it in the middle and bent both arms downward.
"All right," he said. "What are we looking for?"
"Give me a thrill and try without knowing/' I said. "I've heard that it doesn't really matter."
He rose.
"So long as you don't do an article about it for someone else." Holding the hanger by its two arms he strolled the length of the room, entered the dining area, and turned left. "It's in the bedroom," he said, as he went in there.
We followed him. The hanger seemed to jerk to his right. Glory licked her lips and followed him toward the taller dresser, standing between the closet and bathroom doors. She followed him on his right, I on his left as he approached it. The wire jerked downward, indicating the second drawer. Glory reached forward and drew it open. Handkerchiefs and shorts to the right, rolled socks to the left. . .
. . . and I knew somehow, even before Jerry's hanger began drifting leftward. I reached forward, plunged my hand in among the socks, and felt around. Glory uttered a brief hiss as I located and withdrew a small, strangely heavy, cheap-looking, cloth-covered box. I flipped it open immediately to reveal a pair of oval, gray metal cuff links inscribed with a Celtic design.
"That what you were looking for, Alf?" Jerry asked.
"Yes. Thank you very much."
"Hardly anyone wears cuff links these days," he observed.
"I do have a use for them and these are of particular sentimental value," I said, suddenly somehow understanding exactly where the value lay, as I withdrew the links from the case and handed them to Glory. "Here. Would you keep these for me?" I said. "Till I need them?"
Her eyes met mine as her fist closed upon the jewelry, and she smiled. I shut the case and moved as if to replace it among the socks. I palmed it as I did so, and after I closed the drawer I slipped it into the side pocket of my jacket.
"Let's go finish our drinks," I said.
After Jerry left, Glory came across the room and into my arms.
"Thanks for the show of faith," she said. "You make it hard to doubt you."
I held her with my right arm, as I let my left hang to the side to cover the box in my pocket against her quick frisking movements. After all, I could have picked up something else in the bathroom.
"I told you that's how it would be," I said.
"What are their significance?" she asked.
"I have no idea. I've never seen them before. Didn't know they were there. You must have ways of testing objects for unusual properties."
She nodded. "Of course. And what of this Paul Jensen?"
"A great-uncle, well-heeled, somewhat eccentric. Always kindly disposed toward me. Haven't seen him in years, though. It may take a while to run him down and learn his interest in this."
"Then let's go test the links," she said.
Double-wish, and we were in the foyer, facing the living room where one sofa was totally dominated by a crustaceous-looking individual five or six feet in length who, in the claw at the end of one of its many articulated limbs, held a great mug of what looked to be swamp water. Membranous wings of indeterminate outline were draped over the cushions at its back, and its head was covered with a forest of short antennae. The head, which was apple -green, darkened on our appearance. A dull metal, tube-like canister stood upon the floor before it. The side facing me bore a grid, and what appeared to be a small control panel. Its uppermost end was covered by some clear material, and when I moved nearer later I detected within its shadowy recesses contours strongly suggesting those of a human brain.
Adam Maser Macavity, the Kaleideion, stood before it, left foot on an ottoman, left elbow on left knee, left hand supporting his chin. He had on a black suit and a white shirt opened at the neck, and he held a drink in his right hand. He was leaning forward listening to the buzzing noises the creature made. These sounds ceased immediately on its regarding us.