"This thing, Alf," he said. "What's the scoop?"
"I gave a full bottle to an old bum named Urtch who'd turned up in an entranceway after the Switch was thrown."
"'Urtch'? As in 'Demiurtch'?"
"He just said 'Urtch.'"
Adam growled softly.
"And he did this to the bottle afterwards?"
"I didn't see him do it, but that's how I found it later."
"And he stayed out there while the Switch was on?"
"Insisted."
"What became of him?"
"He just sort of disappeared before I looked again."
"He do or say anything else interesting?"
"Tossed his first empty into the fog to show me a photon smear. When I told him I thought I saw something moving out there he said it was the Ouroboros Serpent."
"Hm. That tells me something about timing."
"Of what?"
"Oh, it's just a private superstition I— Gods! I've got it myself! The fresh superstition! I have an ingredient to donate! Excuse me." He picked up the brain canister and ran off toward the Hellhole. "Every little bit helps," he said.
I went to the kitchen and made hot chocolate. Later, while we were drinking it, Adam emerged, wiping his hands on his trousers, and threw himself down upon a sofa.
I poured a cup and took it to him.
"Challenging chocolate," he said tasting it. "The new ingredients add amazing dimensions."
"Are we drinking the same chocolate?" I asked, raising mine to sip again.
"Iddroid ingredients, Blackie. Just ran three simulations with what we've got and had a different result each time. It's definitely nonlinear now. The uncertainty of life will be in it. The inconnu!"
Glory came up on his other side and You-Hiffed at him. He held out his hand. She deposited my cuff links in it. He scrutinized them, weighing them with his hand.
He reached up, unzipped the air in front of him, reached inside the slit and drew forward a unit about the size of a can opener. It hung suspended before him.
"Parlor work station," Glory explained.
He attached a pair of wires from the unit and pressed a design on its front. Then he raised his eyes to read something it displayed.
"Beta Cygnus," he announced. "Earth design, metallic compound from Beta Cygnus," and he detached the leads, pushed everything back out of sight, and zipped space shut once more. Again, he bounced the links in his hand. Then, "Otherwise innocuous," he added. "No concealed transmitter, no hidden explosive. Nada."
He handed them to me.
"You knew something was hidden in your apartment, but you did not know what," he said.
"That's right."
"Nan tells me you're aware of your identity with the clones."
"Correct."
"Then it would seem the cuff links are more in the nature of a reminder to you or a caution to me that something is in the offing—rather than any threat in themselves. Did their discovery set off any special chain of reminiscences or compulsions?"
"No," I said, truthfully, thinking of myself in the mirror—and happy that that was before the links discovery.
"Then I suggest you be alert for such at any time, and let me know if they do occur."
"All right." Whenever . . .
"Dammy, you still owe Alf, you know," Glory said. After all that had happened, I was surprised—and pleased—she still thought Macavity should keep his promises.
"I know. But I've already offered him a partnership."
"I mean the recall."
"The total? Of course! Idiot, I am. In time all will be made copacetic. Copacetic? Yes?"
"Not after 1940."
"Thanks again. I've decided against the total recall of that one-man band. Too limited in capacity. It'll be Marcel Proust instead."
"You've got him?"
"I've got the whole Green Carnation, Yellow Book, fin de siecle crowd. They used to come to me, pawning, buying exchanging for new kicks."
But Adam was interrupted by yet another invasion, a sort of Lord Byron, the poet, who declaimed, "The ITs shall inherit the earth!"
I stared. He was a tall, almost pretty-looking fellow who wore a navy blue cloak over gray trousers and jacket, a heavily ruffled shirt, and a red waistcoat. He had on black gaitered boots, and his hair was long and wavy. His eyes were pale, his smile bright, his voice amazing.
Macavity bowed lightly and observed, "Which would have you leading the way, Mr. Ash. Alf, I'd like to introduce Ashton Ash, lead vocalist for the IT, the most popular singing group of a generation."
Since it was not a generation with which I was familiar I could only smile, nod, and acknowledge, "Of course. The IT. Happy to know you, Mr. Ash."
"I find it hard to guess what you might possibly want," Macavity stated, slipping into the persona mode, tuned to make him seem larger, more forceful, spreading his presence throughout the room, dominating. "You're rich, talented, attractive—"
Ash eyed me and Glory almost wistfully. Finally, licking his lips, "Sex," he responded.
Macavity chuckled. "Some exotic enhancement?" he asked.
"No. Just the plain old-fashioned kind."
"Surely you're joking. You must have it thrust upon you constantly. I don't understand—"
"Of course. But I can't take advantage of it."
"Ah! Impotence. You don't need my services. There are many forms of medical treatment available."
Ash shook his head. Then he stood straighter, opened his mouth, and began to sing. It was Astrafeeamonte's wild, amazing aria from The Magic Flute. We listened, spellbound, to the entire thing. When he was finished we applauded.
"Amazing coloratura," Macavity said, just as Ash shifted to baritone for a barbershop number.
Afterwards, we simply stared. It was too much, that voice, with its extraordinary range, fluency, and shades of feeling. I'd never heard another like it.
"I don't understand," Macavity said. "Surely, you don't wish to trade a voice like that."
Ash looked at each of us in turn. Then, "We are all adults here," he announced, and he fumbled at his trousers and braces and dropped his pants.
I watched, fascinated, as did the others. He seemed well-enough hung to have no complaints, and I did not really understand the display until he seated himself, legs open.
"Aha!" Macavity said. "You're a true hermaphrodite! Remarkable! Do you know how rare that is?"
Ash smiled.
"It's rather common in the company I keep," he replied. "All of the IT are true hermaphrodites. It's the accompanying hormone mix that gives us our unique vocal abilities."
"Of course," Macavity said. "You are doubly—nay, triply—blessed."
"Cursed, rather," Ash responded.
"How so?"
"The few times I revealed all of my equipment I frightened away potential partners. It made me self-conscious, neurotic about the whole business. In fact, I've never really gotten any in my whole life—"
"Sacre bleu!"
"Gotterdamerung!"
"Pobrecito!"
He nodded sadly.
"—which is why I'm here," he finished. And I heard Macavity mutter, "An inconnu absolu! Ingredient!"
Then. "Tell me your desire—besides the simple and basic—and you will be accommodated," he said.
"I want to trade one set of them—either one, I guess— so I can be like everyone else. Well, half of everyone else, anyway."
"You realize what it will do to your voice?"
"Yes, but I don't care. I've made my bundle, I'm ready to retire and enjoy life. Give some new IT a chance."
"All right. But I must have the entire ensemble. I'll provide you with a new set of solo equipment—of your choice—out of stock. Of equal or superior quality, I hasten to add."
Ash beamed.
"It's a deal." He rose, adjusted his apparel, and, with a nod to Glory and me, allowed the cat-man to lead him off into the Hellhole.