Perhaps A.G. Chemie can help me, he conjectured. They might have a new ultra-powerful synthetic detergent which will obliterate my phobic body odour, at least for a time.
Who do I know there that I can contact? He tried to recall.
On the Houston, Texas, Symphony Board of Directors there was ...
The telephone in his room rang.
Carefully, Kongrosian draped a handtowel over the screen. ‘Hell,' he said, standing a good distance from the phone, hoping thereby not to contaminate it. Naturally, it was a vain hope, but he had to make the attempt; he was still trying.
‘The White House in Washington, D.C.,' a voice from the phone stated. ‘Janet Raimer calling. Go ahead, Miss Raimer. I have Mr Kongrosian's room.'
‘Hello, Richard,' Janet Raimer said. ‘What have you put over the phone screen?'
Pressed against the far wall, with as much distance between himself and the phone as possible, Kongrosian said, ‘You shouldn't have tried to reach me, Janet. You know how ill I am. I'm in an advanced compulsive-obsessive state, the worst I've ever experienced. I seriously doubt if I'll ever be playing publicly again. There's just too much risk. For instance, I suppose you saw the item in the newspaper today about the workman in the candy factory who fell into the vat of hardening chocolate. I did that.'
‘You did? How?'
‘Psionicly. Entirely involuntarily, of course. Currently, I'm responsible for all the psychomotor accidents taking place in the world -- that's why I've signed myself in here at the hospital for a course of electroconvulsive shock. I believe in it, despite the fact that it's gone out of style. Personally I get nothing from drugs. When you smell as bad as I do, Janet, no drugs are going to -- ‘
Janet Raimer interrupted. ‘I don't believe you really smell as badly as you imagine, Richard. I've known you for many years and I can't imagine you smelling really genuinely badly, at least enough to force a termination of your brilliant career.'
‘Thanks for your loyalty,' Kongrosian said gloomily, ‘but you just don't understand. This is no ordinary physical odour. This is an idea type odour. Some day I'll mail you a text on the subject, perhaps by Bingswanger or some of the other existential psychologists. They really understood me and my problem, even though they lived a hundred years ago. Obviously they were precogs. The tragedy is that although Minkowski, Kuhn, and Binswanger understood me, there's nothing they can do to help me.'
Janet said, ‘The First Lady is looking forward to your quick and happy recovery.'
The inanity of her remark infuriated him. ‘Good grief don't you understand Janet? At this point I'm thoroughly delusional. I'm as mentally ill as it's possible to be. It's incredible that I can communicate with you at all. It's a credit to my ego-strength that I'm not at this point totally autistic.
Anyone else in my situation would be.' He felt momentary, justified pride. ‘It's an interesting situation that I'm facing, this phobic body odour. Obviously, it's a reaction-formation to a more serious disorder, one which would disintegrate my comprehension of the Umwelt, Mitwelt and Eigenwelt. What I've managed to do is -- ‘
‘Richard,' Janet Raimer interrupted, ‘I feel so sorry for you. I wish I could help you.' She sounded, then, as if she were about to cry; her voice wavered.
‘Oh well,' Kongrosian said, ‘who needs the Umwelt, Mitwelt and Eigenwelt? Take it easy, Janet. Don't get so emotionally involved. I'll be out of here, just as before.' But he did not really believe that. This time was different. And evidently Janet had sensed it. ‘However,' he went on, ‘I think in the meantime you're going to have to search elsewhere for White House talent. You'll have to forget me and strike out into entirely new areas. What else is a talent scout for, if not to do exactly that?'
‘I suppose so,' Janet said.
My son, Kongrosian thought. Maybe he could appear in my place. What a weird, morbid thought that was; he cringed from it, horrified that he had let it enter his mind.
Really, it demonstrated how ill he was. As if anyone could be interested, take seriously, the unfortunate quasi-musical noises which Plautus made ... although perhaps in the largest, most embracing sense, they could be called ethnic.
‘Your current disappearance from the world,' Janet Raimer said, ‘is a tragedy. As you say, it's my job to find someone or something to fill the void -- even though I know that's impossible. I'll make the try. Thank you, Richard. It was nice of you to talk to me, considering your condition.
I'll right off now, and let you rest.'
Kongrosian said, ‘All I hope is that I haven't contaminated you with my phobic odour.' He broke the connection, then.
My last tie with the interpersonal world, he realized. I may never speak on the phone again; I feel my world contracting even more. God, where will it end? But the electroconvulsive shock will help; the shrinkage process will be reversed or at least stalled.
I wonder if I ought to try to get hold of Egon Superb, he said to himself. Despite the McPhearson Act. Hopeless; Superb no longer exists -- the law has obliterated him, at least as far as his patients are concerned. Egon Superb may still exist as an individual, in essence, but the category ‘psychoanalyst' has been eradicated as if it never existed.
But how I need him! If I could consult him just one more time -- damn A.G. Chemie and their enormous lobby, their huge influence. Maybe I can get my phobic odour to spread to them.
Yes, I'll put through a call to them, he decided. Ask about the possibility of the super detergent and at the same time contaminate them; they deserve it.
In the phone book he looked up the number of the Bay Area branch of A.G. Chemie, found it, and by psychokinesis dialled.
They'll be sorry they forced passage of that act, Kongrosian said to himself as he listened to the phone connection being put through.
‘Let me talk to your chief psych-chemist,' he said, when the A.G. Chemie switchboard had responded.
Presently a busy-sounding male voice came on to the line, the towel placed over the screen of the phone made it impossible for Kongrosian to see the man but he sounded young, competent, and thoroughly professional. ‘This is B Station. Merrill Judd speaking. Who is this and why do you have the vid portion blocked?' The psych-chemist sounded irritable.
Kongrosian said, ‘You don't know me, Mr Judd.' And then he thought, Now it's time to contaminate them.
Stepping close to the phone he whisked the towel from the screen.
‘Richard Kongrosian,' the psych-chemist said, eyeing him. ‘Yes, I know you, know your artistry at least.' He was a young man, with a competent no-nonsense expression, a thoroughly detached schizoid person indeed. ‘It's an honour to meet you sir. What can I do for you?'
‘I need an antidote,' Kongrosian said, ‘for an abominable Theodorus Nitz offensive body odour commercial. You know the one which begins: "In moments of great intimacy with ones we love, especially then does the danger of offending become acute," and so forth.' He hated even to think about it; his body odour seemed to become more powerful when he did so, if such was possible. He longed, then, for genuine human contact; he felt violently conscious of his encapsulation. ‘Do I scare you?' he asked.
Regarding him with his wise, professional intensity, the A.G. Chemie official said, ‘I'm not worried. Naturally I've heard discussions of your endogenous psychosomatic ailment, Mr Kongrosian.'
‘Well,' Kongrosian said tightly, ‘let me tell you that it's exogenous; it's the Nitz commercial that started it.' It depressed him to realize that strangers, that the entire world was aware of -- was talking about -- his psychological situation.
‘The predisposition must have been there,' Judd said, ‘for the Nitz commercial to so influence you.'