Rachmael said to it, "You're Matson Glazer-Holliday."
"Yes," the eye-eater admitted.
"He took this evil manifestation," the creditor balloon shouted, "to evade us. But as you can see, Mr. — " It regarded Rachmael as it bobbed and drifted. "I believe you are familiar to us, too" it declared, then. "Are you one of those who has shirked his moral and legal duty, who has failed to honor his financial obligations? As a matter of fact..." It drifted very slowly toward Rachmael. "I think I personally hounded you not too long ago, sir. You are — " It considered as, within, electronic circuits linked it to its agency's central computer banks, "ben Applebaum!" it shrilled in triumph. "Zounds! I've caught two deadbeats AT THE SAME TIME!"
"I'm getting out of here," the eye-eater who was — or once had been — Matson Glazer-Holliday declared; it began to flow off, uniped-wise, getting free of the situation as quickly as possible... and at Rachmael's expense.
"Hey," he protested weakly. "Don't you go scuttling off, Matson. This is all too damn much; wait, for god's sake!"
"Your late father," the creditor balloon boomed at him, its voice now amplified by the background data supplied it by the central computer upon which it depended, "as of Friday, November tenth, 2014, owed four and one-third million poscreds to the noble firm Trails of Hoffman Limited, and as his heir, you, sir, must appear before the Superior Court of Marin County, California, and show just cause as to why you have failed (or if you by a miracle have not failed but possess the due sum in toto) and if by your failure you hope to — "
Its resonant voice ceased. Because, in approaching Rachmael the better to harass him, it had forgotten about the finely probing pseudopodia of the eye-eater.
One of the pseudopodia had whipped about the body of the creditor balloon. And squeezed.
"Gleeb!" the creditor balloon squeaked. "Gak!" it whooshed as its frail structure crumbled. "Glarg!" it sighed, and then wheezed into final silence as the pseudopodium crushed it. Fragments rained down, then. A gentle pat-pat of terminal sound.
And after that — silence.
"Thanks," Rachmael said, gratefully.
"Don't thank me," the eye-eater said in a gloomy voice. "After all, you've got a lot more troubles than that pitiful object. For instance, Rachmael, you've got the illness. Telpor Syndrome. Right?"
"Right,"he admitted.
"So it's S.A.T. for you. Good old therapy by Lupov's psychiatrists, probably some second-string hick we never ought to have voted money to pay for. Some fnigging quab; right?" The eye-eater chuckled, in a philosophic fashion. "Well, so it goes. Anyhow — what's with you, Rachmael? Lately you've been, um, a weevil; part of that class and seeing Paraworld Blue... is that correct? Yes, correct." The eye-eater nodded sagely. "And it's just ever so much fun... right? With that Sheila Quam as the control, these days. And form 47-B hanging around, ready to be utilized as soon as two of you experience the same delusional world. Heh-heh." It chuckled; or rather, Matson Glazer-Holliday chuckled. Rachmael still found it difficult, if not impossible, to recall that the pulpy, massive heap of organic tissue confronting him was Matson.
And — why this shape? Had the creditor balloon been right? Merely to evade the balloon... it seemed an overly extreme ruse to escape. Frankly Rachmael was not convinced; he sensed that more, much more, lay below the surface of apparent meaning.
Below the surface. Did nothing actual lie at hand? Did everything have to turn out, eventually, to consist of something else entirely? He felt weary — and resigned. Evidently this remained so. Whether he liked it or not. Delusional as this might be, obviously it was not acting in conformity to his wishes. Not in the slightest.
"What can you tell me," he said, "about Freya?" He set himself, braced against the possibility of horrible, final news; he waited with cold stoic anticipation.
"Chrissake, she's fine," the eye-eater answered. "Nobody got her; it was me they got. Blew me to bits, they did."
"But," Rachmael pointed out, "you're alive."
"Somewhat." The eye-eater sounded disenchanted. "You call this being alive? Well, I guess technically it's being alive; I can move around, eat food, breathe; maybe, for all I know, I can reproduce myself. Okay, I admit it; I'm alive. Are you satisfied?"
Rachmael said hoarsely, "You're a Mazdast."
"Hell I am."
"But my paraworld," Rachmael said bluntly, "is Paraworld Blue. I've seen the Aquatic Horror-shape, Matson; I know from firsthand experience what it looks like." He plunged on, then, ruthlessly. "And you're it."
"Almost." The eye-eater sounded placid; he had not disturbed its potent calm. "But you yourself noticed crucial differences, son. For example, I possess a multitude of compound eyes; high in protein, they often provide me — in time of dire want — an ample diet. As I recently demonstrated. Shall I display this neat faculty once more?" It reached, then, two pseudopodia toward its recently regrown optic organs. "Very tasty," it intoned, now apparently engrossed in furthering its meal.
"Wait a moment," Rachmael said thickly. "I find your appetite offensive; for god's sake, wait!"
"Anything," the eye-eater said obligingly, "to please a fellow human being. We both are, you realize. I am, certainly. After all, I'm the quondam owner of Lies Incorporated; correct? No, I am not a Mazdast; not one of the primordial Ur-inhabitants of Fomalhaut IX. They constitute a low order of organism; I spit on them." It spat, decisively. In its mind there was no doubt; it detested the Mazdasts. "What I am," it continued, "is the living embodiment of humanity and not some alien creep-thing that nature was inclined to spawn on this far-flung, rather degenerate crypto-colony planet. Well, when Computer Day arrives, all that will be taken care of. You included, you odd life form, you. Heh-heh." It giggled once more. "Now, that book I loaned you. Dr. Bloode's book. It seems to me that if you want to catch up on the very vital facts pertaining to Newcolonizedland, you really ought to con it thoroughly. What you want to learn undoubtedly lies within. Read it! Go on! Heh-heh." Its voice trailed off stickily into an indistinct torrent of mumbled amusement, and Rachmael felt a surge of doubt, overwhelming doubt, that this was — at least now — the man he had known as Matson Glazer-Holliday. He sensed its innate alienness. It was, beyond doubt, nonhuman. To say the least.
With dignity, he answered, "I'll read it when I have time."
"But you'll enjoy it, Mr. ben Applebaum. Not only is the volume educational, but also highly amusing. Let me quote one of Dr. Bloode's quite singular Thing-isms."
" 'Thingisms'?" Rachmael felt baffled — and wary. He had a deep intuition that the Thingism, whatever it was, would not be amusing. Not to him, anyhow, or to any human.
"I always enjoyed this one," the eye-eater intoned, its saliva spilling from its mouth as it writhed with glee. "Consider: since you are about to read the book, here is Thingism Number Twenty, dealing with books.
"Ahem. 'The book business is hidebound.' "
After a pause, Rachmael said, "That's it?"
"Perhaps you failed to understand. I'll give you another gem, one more particular favorite of mine. And if that fails to move you... Oooohhh! That's a Thingism! Listen! 'The representative of the drayage firm failed to move me.' Oooohhh! How was that?" It waited hopefully.