Psychoshop Read online

  “This,” Macavity said, “is Etaoin Shrdlu.”

  “Don’t put me on. They’re the most often used letters in the English language.”

  “It’s his alias, Alf,” Glory explained. “He doesn’t want his real name known because he’s committed a crime.”

  “What he do? Spit on the sidewalk?”

  “Burglary,” Adam said. “Breaking and entering after dark.”

  “And this Count Alesandro needs for his Iddroid?”

  “No, he needs what Etaoin burgled.”

  “What?”

  “These.” Adam held out what looked like three yellow postage stamps.

  “What are these,” I quoted, “so wither’d and so wild in their attire, that look not like th ‘inhabitants o’ the earth, and yet are on’t?”

  “Shame on you, Banquo. You’re supposed to be the science absolute. Don’t you know microchips when you see them?”

  “They are? Really?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “And they’re for the Iddroid?”

  “What’s in them is.”

  “What’s in their memory cells?”

  “Thousands of books.”

  “What hath William Caxton wrought! With the help of Texas Instruments. The whole scenario, please.”

  “Etaoin’s a filing clerk in the Library of Congress. He’s never been promoted because he lacks formal college degrees. So he decided to cheat his way into a master’s and doctorate in belles-lettres.”

  “Ah-ha!”

  “Under cover of darkness he snuck into the library stacks with chips and input gear and implanted in these three the contents of every book he could find on the subject. Each chip has two million memory cells, six million in all.”

  “Oh-ho.”

  “Yes, most of the world’s literature, philosophy, and history is contained in these tiny packets. The good, the bad, and the gross. If the Library of Congress has it Shrdlu’s recorded it here.”

  “And he’ll trade all this for a couple of fake degrees?”

  “No, he wants the real things—transcripts as well as diplomas.”

  “How’ll you manage that?”

  He laughed.

  “A few years ago a young doctoral graduate from an Ivy League school traded me his degrees. I sent him back to talk to his younger self, advising him to enroll under a different name.”

  “What name?”

  “Told him we’d let him know. Now it’s time to go back again and tell him it’s Shrdlu. No problem.”

  “What did he get for his degrees?”

  “He wanted a piece of a statistical anomaly—that is to say, luck. Just enough so that he’d never have to work. Wouldn’t need the degrees then. He’d discovered he didn’t much like teaching.”

  “You can deliver something like that?”

  “Sure, this place is designed to deal with the improbable. He spends half of his time on cruise ships playing poker, the rest of it in comfy digs enjoying his winnings. Never play cards with a guy who insists you not call him ‘Doc.’”

  “This whole wishing business that brings in the customers … ?”

  “We need something like that because we can’t afford to advertise. If we did we’d be swamped with frivolous requests. We only want to attract the serious-minded.”

  “Understood, Pussycat. But how does it work? The wishing thing? You said you’d tell me.”

  “It’s a matter of desire, and will. Either a person learns of us from one of our many happy customers, or the person makes us up—a ‘wouldn’t it be nice if there were a place where—’ In either case, they then have to want to do the deal badly enough for the desire to activate the customer attractor in the singularity. The rest is post-Einsteinian physics. Getting home is easy afterwards. Same thing in reverse.”

  “Well, why do we often get customers from the past or the future? Why don’t they wind up in your shop of their own day?”

  “It’s like taking a number. Appointments get shuffled by the attractor for me, perfectly. The past and the future keep changing as much as the present, partly from things we do. And sometimes a person starts to wish and changes her mind—or drops dead. All the customer sees, and all we see, is the end result: They wish and they’re here. And we service them. Prompt. Efficient.”

  Glory hissed and passed me the bottle.

  “What about manuscripts found in miniatures?” I asked. “How do they wish something like this to you?”

  “It would have to have been transported physically, by a sentient organism,” he said. “For the sake of drama, it seems the narrator would have us believe that the individual responsible was a bejeweled mouse. Don’t believe it. The mouse is a red herring. The narrator could as easily have projected himself here from behind bars as not. Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage. I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space—”

  “Burma Shave,” I said. “But could a mouse have brought the thing?”

  “Possibly, and she wouldn’t be the first animal to wish here. 1943-44. London in the middle of the blitz. Why no mention of that? France occupied by the Nazis. How’d this minibottle get out and over to Old Bond Ltd? And the machine revolt? Deliriously absurd.”

  “Then it has to be a put-on.”

  “If it is we’ve got to meet the author of the extravaganza. You and Nan go find the perpetrator. He’s probably somewhere around forty-four.”

  “What? Why send me in, coach?”

  “Because I’ve got a long, long session with Dr. Shrdlu ahead. No telling when we’ll be finished.”

  “How come? Usually you’re in and out of the Hellhole in a flash.”

  “Mary Shelley and her descendants.”

  “What do they have to do with it?”

  “She gave birth to Victor Frankenstein, who put together you-know-what which generated God knows how many imitations. That’s no input for a nice Jewish Iddroid from the Bronx. They’ve got to be ID’d and winnowed out.”

  “Damn right. Can’t have it attacking us in the brain’s basement. Hey, d’you think it’ll look like the Hollywood versions of Frankenstein’s monster?”

  “Damn if I know what the Count has in mind. It might end up looking like anything from framboise to Freud.”

  “Oh no!” I laughed. “Not a psycho-raspberry!”

  “Be serious, Alf. There’re a few hundred pounds, English, in coin in that chest. Walking-around money, but make sure you take the right dates, pre-‘44. And remember the blitz. Be careful back then, no macho-jock-stuff. Nan, if there’s the slightest danger, get him the hell out. No joke’s worth you two.”

  It was a frustrating manhunt, and only Glory’s charm turned it into a successful treasure hunt. I’ll be brief.

  London: Piccadilly Circus. June 1944.

  Background: Locals all going about their business. Pillars of smoke rising in the distance and even nearby. Overhead the occasional keen of a buzz-bomb. No one paid much attention until the sound cut off, which meant that a bomb was dropping. Then almost everybody stopped and waited until the explosion sounded somewhere and another pillar of smoke towered up. Then more business as usual through the howl of sirens.

  Regent’s Park: Now filled with anti-aircraft batteries and crews. Zoological buildings taken over as barracks. No sign of anyone imprisoned by machines. Surprise. Surprise.

  Old Bond Ltd: Bombed out.

  Hall of Records: For name and address of proprietor of same.

  Half Moon Street: Home of said proprietor. Not available. Now a P.O.W. in Germany. The slavey minding the house knew nothing about Old Bond or champagne. She asked us if we were spies. We told her yes.

  Cadogan Hotel in Sloane Street: A suite because it looked as if we’d have to stay the night. Very posh but took my word that we’d just been bombed out with nothing left but the clothes on our backs. Registered as Mr. and Mrs. A. Noir. Ten pounds.

  Ancient bellhop who led us up the stairs (e
levators not running, of course) proudly told us that this was the very same suite where Oscar Wilde had been arrested in 1894. Liar. It was 1895, and Wilde got busted in the court of Old Bailey.

  Sloane Square: Midland Bank to change the coin, which weighed a ton, into folding money. Peter Jones Dep’t Store for toilet articles, a mac for Glory, and a turtleneck for me. It was a cold June. Heard snide remarks about me not being in the service and in uniform. Glory cooled that. She said conspiratorially, “He’s M.I.5.”

  Eaton Terrace: The Antelope for drinks and dinner. Formerly the hangout of the vintage car crowd. Now all that was left was a magnificent boat-tailed Rolls two-seater parked in front. Nice old lady in the private bar told us it’d been used by Lawrence of Arabia during one of his London visits. I believed her.

  Brandies lessened the pain of dinner. Glory put the minibottle on the bar in front of us—she’d displayed it everywhere without getting any reaction—but this time she got a response.

  A handsome young RAF major came up alongside her, grinned, and said, “Well, well. Another souvenir from Victoria. Had no idea Madame Toussaint was still open for business.”

  Glory smiled. “Major, do help me. Our father—this is my brother—gave me this for a good luck token when he left to join Monty’s staff. I’ve never been able to ask him what it is or where he got it.”

  Brother! But I suppose availability is a part of charm.

  We nodded to each other. The handsome major smiled.

  “Looks like a piece from Madame Toussaint’s miniature display at Victoria Station. I’d thought it closed down. Perhaps it is, and she’s selling it off piecemeal. Pity. It’s an entertaining thing to see once. Educational, too.”

  He picked up the tiny bottle and stared at it. He replaced it before Glory.

  “I’ll bet that’s where your dad got it.”

  He raised his eyes then, staring into the deep pools of her own.

  “Might you be free later this evening?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “I’m afraid I’ve an engagement.”

  “It’s just that it’s my last night of liberty. I’ll be shipping out tomorrow, without much opportunity to socialize.”

  “The night is still young,” she told him, rising. “Good luck. And thank you.”

  He nodded.

  “Enjoy the show.”

  We made our way back to Sloane Street, wanting to be in our suite before the blackout began. Passersby moved quickly, often glancing skyward. A damp breeze followed us, hinting of rain to come.

  We held hands as we mounted the stair, and I brushed her lips with mine outside our door. I thought I felt the momentary flick of a serpent tongue as I did so.

  Within, we secured the door, and she unslung her purse, took out a bottle of cognac, offered it, and said, “Here. Clobber me with it or drink it, preferably both.”

  That broke me up. Enchanted by the Medusa yet again. We shared a few happy cognacs while we relaxed and complimented each other on our search. We shared a few more. All in the soft light of a single lamp. The blackout had begun and we were taking no chance of the full suite lights showing through the heavy curtains. We’d be questioned, which was the last thing we needed.

  We were sprawled lazily on the bed. The rose highlights on Glory’s new skin flickered and glowed as she reached over to untie my ascot. She unbuttoned my shirt and began undressing me, me protecting the bottle but not protesting. Her hands were cool, deft, gentle, and, my God! exciting. I had to cork the cognac fast. Then it was my turn.

  She was beautifully strange, strangely beautiful. She had no breasts, not even nipples. She had no navel. From neck to hips her body was liquid smooth, rounded, supple, glowing with splashes of rose that changed with every motion, almost like a language I couldn’t read.

  Her vulva was the tip of a flower bud which pulsed as we entwined, mouthed, tongued, body to body, head to head, head to toe, savoring, engulfing. She’d been hissing gently, melodiously, in her own love language. Suddenly she gasped, cried out, and the bud opened into a crimson flower which drew me into it. I made that first deep thrust and then the flower, her body, and her voice began resonating to our passion and joined the loving with trembling sonar spasms that produced echoing vibrations in me. Too soon, too soon, we reached our climax.

  And we lay entwined, she still cool, me hot and bathed in her, and at last I was able to whisper, “Dear love … Sweet love … Never … Never …”

  “Shhh. Shhh. Shhh. Don’t move. Wait.”

  So we waited.

  Then I became aware that all hell was breaking loose in London outside: warning sirens, heavy explosions, thunder and lightning. And inside, distant knocks on doors, approaching, and a creaky voice, also approaching, calling, “Air raid, ladies and gentlemen. Air raid. Deep emergency shelter in South Ken underground station. If so desired.”

  The warning reached our suite and passed on. We paid no attention; what we desired was right here. The tip of her darting tongue was exploring my eyes, ears, face, and mouth. Her sinuous body was undulating and her smooth, glowing skin glided against mine while the flower petals fluttered, tingled, and teased me back into power and yet another thrust. And this time it was a forever exaltation.

  Then we stroked, smiled, murmured, nestled, and at last slept.

  When we awoke we both thought it would be love again but the All Clear began to sound, reminding us of why we were in ‘44 London. We laughed, shrugged, and got ourselves together to continue to track down the perpetrator of that preposterous S.O.S. I was betting on a freak literate mouse with a tiara and a sense of humor. Glory was for one of those jokers who can inscribe the Lord’s Prayer on the head of a pin. She was right.

  No cabs that early in the morning, so we walked it—to Sloane Square, down lower Sloane Street, left on Pimlico Road to Buckingham Palace Road (the locals call it “Buck House Road”) and Victoria Station, grim, grimy, battered, a memorial to the incredible taste of the Victorian era.

  It was quite dark inside, very few lights, yet busy with the morning arrivals of commuters and shoppers who seemed to know their way about in the gloom. Just as well. The London crowd really hustles fast and we had to do some fancy dodging as we explored until we finally found:

  MADAME TOUSSAINT’S

  LILLIPUTIAN LONDON

  LILLIPUT LONDON

  lilliput london

  The sign hung over a gilt door on which was painted a smaller door on which was painted a smaller door on which etc. etc. And across it was whitewashed, CLOSE.

  We looked at each other, dismayed and laughing, then crossed to the cloakroom and questioned the uniformed woman in charge.

  “Ow yus,” she said. “Been shut down since the ‘lectric failed and didn’t start again when the power come on again. Madam Toos? Ain’t ‘round much. Usual drownin’ of ‘er sorrows in the Pirn Pint & Piney-apple. You might give it a shot. It’s jus’ ‘round the corner. Can’t miss it.”

  So around the corners of Belgrave, Eccleston, and Elizabeth Streets until we found the Pimlico Pint & Pineapple Hostelry in Semley Place, SW 1, Westminster. Just as well. No complaints. If we hadn’t used up so much time we wouldn’t have found it open for business. Their lunatic licensing laws! Now it was bustling, and Madame Toussaint was pointed out sitting alone at a back table a-drownin’ of ‘er sorrows with a pint of mild and bitter.

  She looked like a two-hundred-pound Lady Macbeth, wearing some sort of black, flowing schmata and outrageous makeup. There were neat stacks of shillings and sixpences on the table alongside her pint. As we sat down opposite her I tucked a pound note between the two stacks.

  “Is this a dagger I see before me?” she asked in a deep fake-cultivated voice. Right. I know a failed actress when I see one. “And whom are you twain?”

  I gave her the theater shtick. “Colleagues, Madame. My name’s Noyer, a producer from the States. This is my A.D., Glory. We’ve heard about your marvelous show and made a special trip to catch
it.”

  “Closed, alas. Closed, alack, dear producer.”

  “Because the electric power went out?”

  “Oh, it’s back again, restored at long last. Look about you.”

  “Then you can restore the power to your magnificent Lilliput show.”

  “Of course, of course, but no, no, nevermore!”

  I tucked in another pound note. The Toussaint belted down another gulp of mild and bitter.

  “Why not, dear Madame?”

  She leaned forward over her enormous bust and gave us the sotto voce used for asides in Restoration plays. “Never let the enemy, who shall be nameless, know—but when that engine of destruction struck the power plant rendering it hors de combat there was one last…” More mild and bitter. “… one last, mark you, giant burst of power, thousands upon thousands of volts, the swansong of the dying Vauxhall power station.”

  “And?”

  “It shot through my show. For many minutes all was frantic, highspeed, then slower and slower until at last came death’s sting. All stopped, never to live again.”

  I tsk-tsk’d sympathetically. “What a shame. The krauts have much to answer for.”

  “I told you the enemy shall be nameless.”

  Another pound note. “Would it be asking too much to let us see your show, Madame? Alive or dead we feel that there is much to be learned, theaterwise, from you and it. Who knows? Perhaps another in the States under your supervision?”

  She swept the money into a beaded bag, finished the pint, and stood up. “Come.”

  As we followed I gave my new love a long look, wondering whether she was reading what was in my mind— that the final electric blast had somehow charged the miniatures with a pseudolife and transformed them into robots. I visualized the tiny cars, buses, and trains still going through their paces while the tiny robot people were locked up with one of them writing S.O.S. messages.

  In Victoria Station Lady Macbeth unlocked the door of the exhibit and we entered. She switched on the lights. We were in a small anteroom with a box office window and a sign above: ADMISSION 2/6. Through a door alongside into a largish gallery containing a big round table, at least twenty feet across. There was a raised walkway around it for spectators. We stepped up on it and looked down.