4
When they were finished working him over down in B Cabin, Ferguson made his way slowly up the hill to the dorm, feeling lightheaded and seasick. It was the same old afterward feeling that he had every morning at this time. He knew it was the same every morning because the molecular recorder he carried illicitly under his signet ring told him so. It remembered things for him. He tapped the ring twice and the recorder told him, “You feel crappy and disoriented right now because they just picked your mind. Don’t worry about it. These shits can’t grind you down, boy.” He had that message programmed right at the top: the recorder gave it to him first thing after pick, every morning.
Wisps of fog drifted through the trees. Everything looked damp and shining. Holy Jesus, and this is July, he thought. Feels like February. He could never get used to Northern California. He missed the Los Angeles heat, the dryness, even the smog. That was the one thing the scientists were never going to get rid of, he thought, the smog. They had it in L.A. when there was nobody but Indians living there. Maybe even when just dinosaurs. They were going to have it forever.
Ferguson thumbed the ring again and his voice said, “Lacy’s coming up from San Francisco this weekend. She’ll be staying in Mendo and she hopes you can get leave to visit her Saturday and Sunday. Give her a call right after breakfast. The number is—”
He frowned and hit the ring twice more, digging into deeper memory. “Request Lacy,” he said.
The recorder said, “Lacy Meyers lives in San Francisco, red hair, high cheekbones, thirty-one years old, single, you met her in January oh-two, worked with you on the Betelgeuse Five deal. She can only come when she’s on top. Birthday is March tenth. Home address and phone—”
“Thanks,” he said. Living with pick, it was like writing your autobiography on water. But he didn’t plan on living this way forever.
He went into the dorm, down the long brightly lit hall into the third room on the left, which, according to the orderly who had done recall routine with him today, he shared with two roommates, an Indian who called himself Nick Double Rainbow and a Chic named Tomás Menendez. Neither one seemed to be around at the moment: probably out getting picked, second shift. Ferguson stood wavering in the middle of the room, not sure which corner was his. One bed had a bunch of cubes on it; he picked one up and pressed it and it said something to him in Spanish. Okay. That was easy. The bed opposite it was covered with a bright red blanket marked with crisscross patterns. Indian stuff, he figured. By elimination that leaves this one over here, must be mine.
God, I hate this shit, he thought. Starting every day like a newborn baby.
The one thing he hadn’t forgotten was why he was here. It was either this or Rehab Two, and they were a lot rougher with you at Rehab Two. When you got out of there you were somebody else, meek and mild, fit only for pruning roses. They had intended to send him there after his conviction on the space scam, but he had flipped out, or had pretended to—he wasn’t sure which any more—and his lawyer had gotten him a year at Nepenthe instead. “This man is no criminal,” the lawyer had said. “He is as much a victim as anyone.” True? Ferguson didn’t know any more. Maybe he genuinely did have that mental thing, that Gelbard’s syndrome, or maybe it had only been one more seam. Whatever it was, they were curing him of it here. Sure.
He flopped out of his bed and pushed his thumb down on the phone’s print-plate. “Outside line,” he said.
The computer voice replied, “I have one message for you. Do you want it first, Mr. Ferguson?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“It’s from your wife. In regard to her visit, scheduled for next Tuesday. She will arrive this morning instead, ten-thirty hours.”
“Holy suffering Jesus,” Ferguson said. “You’re kidding. Today? What day is today?”
“Friday, July 21, 2103.”
“And how long is she planning to stay?”
“Until 1500 hours Sunday.”
There went the weekend with Lacy, for sure. Son of a bitch. Even here in this place he worked hard to keep everything lined up the way he wanted it, but it was too hard, goddamned near impossible when you could never remember anything from one day to the next, and nothing ever seemed to stay in position. Son of a bitch. Coming for her conjugal four days early! Furiously he said, “You sure? Dr. Lewis authorized the change of date? This has to be a mix-up.”
“The authorization number is—”
“Never mind. Listen, there’s a bad mix-up here. I’m due for external leave on Saturday. You’ve got something down there about my applying for an external leave for this weekend, don’t you?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ferguson, there’s nothing of that—”
“Check again.”
“There’s no record of any application for external leave.”
“It’s got to be there. There’s been some mistake.” Try arguing with a computer, Ferguson thought, despondent. “I know I applied. You keep searching. And listen, get me Elszabet Lewis right away. She knows I applied, too.”
“Dr. Lewis is with a client, Mr. Ferguson.”
“Tell her I want to talk with her, then. Pronto, soon as she’s done.” He slapped the disconnect and put both his hands over his face and pressed hard. He managed to take two or three deep breaths. Then the phone bleeped: the computer was talking to him again.
“Do you still want that outside line, Mr. Ferguson?”
“No. Yes. Yeah, sure.” When he got the tone he keyed in Lacy’s number in San Francisco. Seven-fifteen in the morning; would she be up yet? Four rings. Slept somewhere else last night, kid? I wouldn’t be surprised. Then he wondered why he suspected that. For all he could remember, she lived like a nun. Maybe the pick isn’t as thorough as you think, he told himself.
On the fifth ring she answered, sounding furry and vague.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Ed, baby.”
“Ed? Ed! ” Awake in a flash. “Oh, sweet, how are you doing? I’ve been thinking about you so much—”
“Listen, there’s trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“About the weekend.”
“Yes?” Suddenly very cool, very remote.
“They won’t give me leave. They say I’ve had a setback, that I have to go in the tank for an extra rinsing.”
“I’ve got everything booked, honey! It’s all set up!”
“Next weekend?”
She was quiet a little while. “I’m not sure I can, next weekend.”
“Oh.”
“Even if you can’t get leave, couldn’t I come over there? You said there’s a house for conjugal visits, didn’t you? And—”
“You aren’t conjugal, Lacy.”
It was the wrong thing to say. He could feel the subzero chill coming up out of the telephone speaker.
He said, “Anyway, that isn’t the point. I’m going to be in the tank all weekend. By the time they get done with me, I won’t know my ass from my elbow. And I can’t have visitors.”