"That you have to have it. They gave me mine back, but they gave me a lot of other stuff too, that I had with me, and I think they just don't understand how things work down here."
"How do things work down here, Edwin?"
"By the rules. You have to have clothes on, and you have to have the right papers."
Dr. Lipshitz made a note. "What will you do if you get clothes and the right papers, Edwin?"
"I'll go to New York and look for somebody to build the box."
"What box is that?"
"The box big enough to put the whole human race in."
"Isn't that going to be a pretty big box, Edwin?"
"You bet, Doc."
CHAPTER 3
Edwin, I'm Dr. Wellafield, the Director of the Facility. Sit down, please. You can go now, Harris."
"Glad to know you," said the detainee, extending his hand. The Director took it, and felt a slight sting of coldness. He sat back, massaging his finger absently, while the patient arranged himself in the visitor's chair. The patient was four inches taller and thirty pounds lighter than the Director, and he had no mustache.
"Now, Edwin," the Director said, "it seems that you were examined under sodium pentothal, and you stuck to your story about leaving the Facility on Monday night. The aliens came and got you."
"That's right."
"But you decided to return, because you knew you couldn't get far without ID and clothing."
"Correct. And money."
"Yes. And Dr. Lipshitz tells me that your intention is to go to New York and find somebody to build a big box. Do you have any idea who that somebody might be?"
"No, Doc, I don't. I was wondering if you could give me some ideas."
"Well, there are a number of good architectural firms in New York. Yallow and Moore are said to be one of the best. Now, Edwin, you realize that if we believe you're a danger to yourself or others, it's our duty to keep you here and treat you. On the other hand, if we decide you're mentally competent, we have to return you to the Municipal Court for trial. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Doc. Can I ask you a question?"
"Certainly, Edwin."
"When you say treat me, does that mean you could clear up my delusions if I stayed here?"
"No, I couldn't promise that."
"Is there any chance?"
"Well, frankly, in terms of a cure, no. In this particular disorder, there are some experimental therapies, but basically all we can do is confine the patient and keep them from harming themself or other people."
"I get it."
"All right, now because you're not violent, in my judgment it would serve no purpose to keep you in the Facility, but on the other hand it wouldn't help to stand trial, either. I'm going to make a call to the courthouse and see if I can straighten that out. Who was the judge who sent you here?"
"Judge Sloat was his name."
"Oh, yes, I know him. I don't think there'll be any difficulty. Now about money, you'll get that back as soon as they dismiss the charges. How much was it?"
"Over fifty bucks."
"That won't be enough." The Director looked in his wallet. "I don't have a lot of cash, but here's a thousand." He folded the bills and handed them to the patient.
"A thousand? That's too much."
"No, you'll need more than that. About papers, the best thing would be to get a job as soon as you can, and open a credit account and so on. What was your occupation in your former life, Edwin?"
"I was a kitchenwares salesman in Harrisburg, but the company went broke. I tended bar part time in a speakeasy for a while; that didn't pay enough. See, my wife left me, and I couldn't get the family back together unless I had a decent job. So I thought I'd drive down to New York and see what I could do. Trenton was the farthest I got. I went to sleep in the hotel that night, and when I woke up I was in the spaceship."
"Uh-huh, uh-huh. Well, a good salesperson or a bartender can always get a job, I'm sure. Just one thing, Edwin, when you apply for work, I wouldn't tell your employers about the aliens."
"Gotcha." The patient stood up. "I don't know how to thank you, Doc. I'll send this money back as soon as I can. Could I borrow your pen and a piece of paper?"
"Certainly." The Director handed him a scriber and a pad from the desk. "But don't worry about paying me."
The detainee shook his head. "Dr. Wellafield, one thousand," he said, writing. "I won't forget this, Doc." They shook hands again, and once more the Director felt a curious cold sting. "I'd do more than that for you, my boy," he said, with a catch in his throat.
CHAPTER 4
One leather suitcase, with contents." The sergeant put it on the counter. "One wallet and contents, fifty-three dollars. One key ring. One pocketknife, legal blade. One handkerchief. One packet of cundrums. Twenty-seven cents in metal change. One magazine. Sign here."
The detainee picked up the magazine and looked at it. "Sure glad to see this again." It looked like nothing much: a lurid thing with some kind of monster on the cover. The detainee signed. "Thanks a lot, Sergeant."
"Go on, get out of here."
It was a slow afternoon in the KoffiShop. The halo in the corner was displaying scenes from the destruction of Accra, but no one was watching. Two lawyers sitting at a window table got up and left, and a man in a funny hat came in.
"Yes, sir?" the counterperson said. It was a halo in a glass case, a digitized healthy young man with a boyish hairdo and perfect teeth.
The customer was staring at the menu. "Are you kidding with these prices?"
"What's wrong with the prices, sir?"
"Ham sandwich, fifty bucks?"
Alerted by the tone of the customer's voice, the counter flickered and went into alarm mode. It said, " Don't make any trouble, sir."
"No, I won't make any trouble. Judas Priest. I'll take the ham on white, french fries on the side, and a cup of java."
"A cup of what, sir?"
"Coffee, for Cripe's sake."
"Sixty-two fifty, please," the counter said.
"Right now?"
The counter flickered again. "Yes, sir. Don't make any trouble, or I'll have to call for assistance."
The man looked for a way through, or around, the glass case that contained the holo. "Where do I put the money?"
"Put it in the slot, sir."
The man put a hundred into the machine; it revolved, and plastic coins tinkled back. A minute later, when the packages thumped down the chute, the customer was watching the holo and muttering.
"They bombed Ghana," he said. "Where the hell is Ghana?" He looked at the packages suspiciously, unwrapped one, took a bite of the sandwich and looked up with his mouth open. "Hey," he said, half strangled.
The counter looked at him and said nothing.
"What's in this sandwich?"
"It contains soya ham, sir."
"What's soya ham?"
"Soybeans, with enhanced ham flavoring."
The customer spat a mouthful on the floor. The counter flickered again. "I am calling for assistance," it said.
"Never mind, I'm leaving. Judas Priest." The customer stood up, took a sip of his coffee, and spat that out too.
"Sixty bucks," he said, with coffee dribbling down his chin. "You guys ought to be ashamed."
In the gray afternoon, a Rollaway bus drifted up the Interstate through the industrial area of east New jersey: mile after mile of tall concrete towers, about half of them belching gray, brown and yellow smoke. The young man, who had got on at Trenton, was coughing and holding a handkerchief to his face.
''Jesus, it never used to be like this," he said to the fat man beside him.
"Yeah? How long since you been through here?"