‘No such thing,' Stone said, or rather tried to say; his voice had gone out on him, numbed by dismay. ‘P-perhaps I could discuss this with you informally, sir. I did falsify Ian Duncan's test score; that's a fact. Now, perhaps my motives for doing it -- ‘
Doyle interrupted. ‘Aren't you jealous of Duncan now? What with his success with the jug, White House-wards?'
There was silence.
‘This -- could be,' Stone rasped in admission at last. ‘But it doesn't change the fact that by all rights Ian Duncan shouldn't be living here; he should be evicted, my motives notwithstanding. Look it up in the Communal Apartment building Code. I know there's a section covering a situation such as this.'
‘But you can't get out of here,' the skypilot persisted, ‘without confessing; you must satisfy the machine. You're attempting to force eviction of a neighbour to satisfy your own emotional, psychological needs. Confess that, and then perhaps we can discuss the Code ruling as it pertains to Duncan.'
Stone groaned and once more attached the intricate system of electrodes to his scalp. ‘All right,' he grated. ‘I hate Ian Duncan because he's artistically gifted and I'm not. I'm willing to be examined by a twelve-resident jury of my neighbours to see what the penalty for my sin is; but I insist that Duncan be given another relpol test! I won't give up on this -- he has no right to be dwelling here amongst us. It's morally and legally wrong.'
‘At least you're being honest, now,' Doyle said.
‘Actually,' Stone said, ‘I enjoy jug band playing; I liked their little act, the other night. But I have to behave in a manner which I believe to be in the public interest.'
The confessionator, it seemed to him, snorted in derision as it popped a second card. But perhaps it was only his imagination.
‘You're just getting yourself deeper and deeper,' Doyle said, reading the card. ‘Look at this.' He grimly passed the card to Stone. ‘Your mind is a riot of confused, ambivalent motives. When was the last time you confessed?'
Flushing, Stone mumbled, ‘I think -- last August. Pape Jones was the skypilot then. Yes, it must have been August.'
Actually, it had been early July.
‘A lot of work will have to be done with you,' Doyle said, lighting a cigarillo and leaning back in his chair.
The opening number on their White House programme they had decided after much discussion and hot argument, would be the Bach ‘Chaconne in D.' Al had always liked it, despite the difficulties involved, the double-stopping and all. Even thinking about the Chaconne made Ian Duncan nervous.
He wished, now that it had at last been decided, that he had held out for the much simpler ‘Fifty Unaccompanied Cello Suite.' But too late now. Al had sent the information to the White House A & R secretary, Mr Harold Slezak.
Al said, ‘Don't for heaven's sake worry; you've got the number two jug in this. Do you mind being second jug to me?'
‘No,' Ian said. It was a relief, actually; Al had the far more difficult part.
Outside the perimeter of Jalopy Jungle Number three the papoola moved, crisscrossing the sidewalk in its gliding, quiet pursuit of a sales prospect. It was only ten in the morning, and no one worth collaring had come along, as yet.
Today the lot had been set up in the hilly section of Oakland, California, among the winding, tree-shrouded streets of the better residential section. Across from the lot, Ian could see The Joe Louis, a peculiarly-shaped but striking apartment building of a thousand units, mostly occupied by very well-to-do Negroes. The building, in the morning sun, appeared especially neat and cared for. A guard, with badge and gun, patrolled the entrance, stopping anyone who did not live there from entering.
‘Slezak has to okay the programme,' Al reminded him.
‘Maybe Nicole won't want to hear the Chaconne; she's got very specialized tastes and they're changing all the time.'
In his mind Ian saw Nicole propped up in her enormous bed, in her pink, frilly robe, her breakfast on a tray beside her as she scanned the programme schedules presented to her for her approval. Already she's heard about us, he thought.
She knows of our existence.
In that case, we really do exist. Like a child that has to have its mother watching what it does, we're brought into being, validated consensually, by Nicole's gaze.
And when she takes her eye off us, he thought, then what? What happens to us afterwards? Do we disintegrate, sink back into oblivion? Back, he thought, into random, unformed atoms. Where we came from, the world of nonbeing, The world we've been in all our lives, up until now.
‘And,' Al said, ‘she may ask us for an encore. She may even request a particular favourite. I've researched it, and it seems she sometimes asks to hear Schumann's "The Happy Farmer." Got that in mind? We'd better work "The Happy Farmer" up, just in case.' He blew a few toots on his jug, thoughtfully.
‘I can't do it,' Ian said abruptly. ‘I can't go on. It means too much to me. Something will go wrong; we won't please her and they'll boot us out. And we'll never be able to forget.'
‘Look,' Al began. ‘We have the papoola. And that gives us -- ‘ He broke off. A tall, stoop-shouldered, elderly man in an expensive natural fibre-grey suit was coming up the sidewalk. ‘My god, it's Luke himself,' Al said. He looked frightened. ‘I've only seen him twice before in my life. Something must be wrong.'
‘Better reel in the papoola,' Ian said. The papoola had begun to move towards Loony Luke.
With a bewildered expression on his face Al said, ‘I can't.'
He fiddled desperately with the controls at his waist. ‘It won't respond.'
The papoola reached Luke, and Luke bent down, picked it up and continued on towards the lot, the papoola under his arm.
‘He's taken precedence over me,' Al said. He looked at Ian numbly.
The door of the office opened and Loony Luke entered.
‘We got a report that you've been using this in your own time, for purposes of your own,' he said to Al, his voice low and gravelly. ‘You were told not to do that; the papoola belongs to the lot, not to the operator.'
Al said, ‘Aw, come on, Luke -- ‘
‘You ought to be fired,' Luke said, ‘but you're a good salesman so I'll keep you on. Meanwhile, you'll have to make your quota without help.' Tightening his grip on the papoola, he started out. ‘My time is valuable; I have to go.'
He saw Al's jug. ‘That's not a musical instrument; it's a thing to put whisky in.'
Al said, ‘Listen, Luke, this is publicity. Performing for Nicole means that the network of jalopy jungles will gain prestige. Got it?'
‘I don't want prestige,' Luke said, pausing at the door. ‘There's no catering to Nicole Thibodeaux by me; let her run her society the way she wants and I'll run the jungles the way I want. She leaves me alone and I'll leave her alone and that's fine with me. Don't mess it up. Tell Slezak you can't appear and forget about it; no grown man in his right senses would be hooting into an empty bottle anyhow.'
‘That's where you're wrong,' Al said. ‘Art can be found in the most mundane daily walks of life, like in these jugs for instance.'
Luke, picking his teeth with a silver toothpick, said, ‘Now you don't have a papoola to soften the First Family up for you. Better think about that. Do you really expect to make it without the papoola?' He grinned.
After a pause Al said to Ian, ‘He's right. The papoola did it for us. But -- hell, let's go on anyhow.'
‘You've got guts,' Luke said. ‘But no sense. Still, I have to admire you. I can see why you've been a top-notch salesman for the organization; you don't give up. Take the papoola the night you perform at the White House and then return it to me the next morning.' He tossed the round, buglike creature to Al; grabbing it, Al hugged it against his chest like a big pillow. ‘Maybe it would be good publicity for the jungles,' Luke said meditatively. ‘But I know this. Nicole doesn't like us. Too many people have slipped out of her hands by means of us; we're a leak in mama's structure and mama knows it.' Again he grinned, showing gold teeth.