Alfred Bester

Fear carries a scent with it that most humans can’t detect. Most, but not all.

By now, of course, the Northeast Corridor was the Northeast slum, stretching from Canada to the Carolinas and as far west as Pittsburgh. It was a fantastic jungle of rancid violence inhabited by a steaming, restless population with no visible means of support and no fixed residence, so vast that censustakers, birth-control supervisors and the social services had given up all hope. It was a gigantic raree-show that everyone denounced and enjoyed. Even the privileged few who could afford to live highly-protected lives in highly-expensive Oases and could live anywhere else they pleased never thought of leaving. The jungle grabbed you. There were thousands of everyday survival problems but one of the most exasperating was the shortage of fresh water. Most of the available potable water had long since been impounded by progressive industries for the sake of a better tomorrow and there was very little left to go around. Rainwater tanks on the roofs, of course. A black market, naturally. That was about all. So the jungle stank. It stank worse than the court of Queen Elizabeth, which could have bathed but didn’t believe in it. The Corridor just couldn’t bathe, wash clothes or clean house, and you could smell its noxious effluvium from ten miles out at sea. Welcome to the Fun Corridor. Sufferers near the shore would have been happy to clean up in salt water, but the Corridor beaches had been polluted by so much crude oil seepage for so many generations that they were all owned by deserving oil reclamation companies. Keep Out! No Trespassing! And armed guards. The rivers and lakes were electrically fenced; no need for guard’s, just skull and crossbones signs and if you didn’t know what they were telling you, tough.

Not to believe that everybody minded stinking as they skipped merrily over the rotting corpses in the streets, but a lot did and their only remedy was perfumery. There were dozens of competing companies producing perfumes but the leader, far and away, was the Continental Can Company, which hadn’t manufactured cans in two centuries. They’d switched to plastics and had the good fortune about a hundred stockholders meetings back to make the mistake of signing a sales contract with and delivering to some cockamamie perfume brewer an enormous quantity of glowing neon containers. The corporation went bust and CCC took it over in hopes of getting some of their money back. That take-over proved to be their salvation when the perfume explosion took place; it gave them entree to the most profitable industry of the times.

But it was neck-and-neck with the rivals until Blaise Skiaki joined CCC; then it turned into a runaway. Blaise Skiaki, Origins; French, Japanese, Black African and Irish, Education; BA, Princeton; ME, MIT; PhD. Dow Chemical, (It was Dow that had secretly tipped CCC that Skiaki was a winner and lawsuits brought by the competition were still pending before the ethics board.) Blaise Skiaki; age, thirty-one; unmarried, straight, genius.

His sense of scent was his genius, and he was privately, referred to at CCC as “The Nose.” He knew everything about perfumery; the animal products, ambergris, castor, civet, musk; the essential oils distilled from plants and flowers; the balsams extruded by tree and shrub wounds, benzoin, opopanax, Peru, Talu, storax, myrrh; the synthetics created from the combination of natural and chemical scents, the latter mostly the esters of fatty acids.

He had created for CCC their most successful sellers: “Vulva,” “Assuage,” “Oxter” (a much more attractive brand name than “Armpitto”), “Preparation F,” “Tongue War,” et cetera. He was treasured by CCC, paid a salary generous enough to enable him to live in an Oasis and, best of all, granted unlimited supplies of fresh water. No girl in the Corridor could resist the offer of taking a shower with him. But he paid a high price for these advantages. He could never use scented soaps, shaving creams, pomades or depilatories. He could never eat seasoned foods. He could drink nothing but pure water. All this, you understand; to keep The Nose pure and uncontaminated so that he could smell around in his sterile laboratory and devise new creations. He was presently composing a rather promising unguent provisionally named “Correctum,” but he’d been on it for six months without any positive results and CCC was alarmed by the delay. His genius had never before taken so long. There was a meeting of the top-level executives, names withheld on the grounds of corporate privilege.

“What’s the matter with him anyway?”

“Has he lost his touch?”

“It hardly seems likely;”

“Maybe he needs a rest.”

“Why, he had a week’s holiday last month:”

“What did he do?”

“Ate up a storm, he told me.”

“Could that be it?”

“No. He said he purged himself before he came back to work.”

“Is he having trouble here at CCC? Difficulties with middle management?”

“Absolutely not, Mr. Chairman. They wouldn’t dare touch him.”

“Maybe he wants a raise.”

“No. He can’t spend the money he makes now.”

“Has our competition got to him?”

“They get to him all the time. General, and he laughs them off.”

“Then it must be something personal.”

“Agreed.”

“Woman-trouble?”

“My God! We should have such trouble.”

“Family-trouble?”

“He’s an orphan, Mr. Chairman.”

“Ambition? Incentive? Should we make him an officer of CCC?”

“I offered that to him the first of the year, sir, and he turned me down. He just wants to play in his laboratory.”

“Then why isn’t he playing?”

“Apparently he’s got some kind of creative block.”

“What the hell is the matter with him anyway?”

“Which is how you started this meeting.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“Not.”

“Governor, will you play back the bug.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please! Obviously Dr. Skiaki has personal problems which are blocking his genius. We must solve that for him. Suggestions?”

“Psychiatry?”

“That won’t work without voluntary cooperation. I doubt whether he’d cooperate. He’s an obstinate gook.”

“Senator, I beg you! Such expressions must not be used with reference to one of our most valuable assets.”

“Mr. Chairman, the problem is to discover the source of Dr. Skiaki’s block.”

“Agreed. Suggestions?”

“Why, the first step should be to maintain twenty-four-hour surveillance. All the gook’s—excuse me—the good doctor’s activities, associates, contacts.”

“By CCC?” “I would suggest not. There are bound to be leaks which would only antagonize the good gook-doctor!”

“Outside surveillance?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good. Agreed. Meeting adjourned.”

SkipTracer Associates were perfectly furious. After one month they threw the case back into CCC’s lap, asking for nothing more than their expenses.

“Why in hell didn’t you tell us that we were assigned to a pro, Mr. Chairman, sir? Our tracers aren’t trained for that.”

“What a minute, please. What d’you mean, `pro?”’

“A professional Rip.”

“A what?”

“Rip, Gorill, Gimpster, Crook.”

“Dr. Skiaki a crook? Preposterous.”

“Look, Mr. Chairman, I’ll frame it for you and you draw your own conclusions. Yes?”

“Go ahead.”

“It’s all detailed in this report anyway. We put double tails on Skiaki every day to and from your shop. When he left they followed him home. He always went home. They staked in double shifts. He had dinner sent in from the Organic Nursery every night. They checked the messengers bringing the dinners. Legit. They checked the dinners; sometimes for one, sometimes for two. They traced some of the girls who left his penthouse. All clean. So far, all clean, yes?”

“And?”

“The crunch. Couple of nights a week he leaves the house and goes into the city. He leaves around midnight and doesn’t come back until four, more or less.”

“Where does he go?”

“We don’t know because he shakes his tails like the pro that he is. He weaves through the Corridor like a whore or a fag cruising for trade—excuse me—and he always loses our men. I’m not taking anything away from him. He’s smart, shifty, quick and a real pro. He has to be; and he’s too much for SkipTracers to handle.”

“Then you have no idea of what he does or who he meets between midnight and four?”

“No, sir. We’ve got nothing and you’ve got a problem. Not ours any more:”

“Thank you. Contrary to the popular impression, corporations are not altogether idotic. CCC understands that negatives are also results. You’ll receive your expenses and the agreed upon fee.”

“Mr. Chairman, I—”

“No, no, please. You’ve narrowed it down to those missing four hours. Now, as you say, they’re our problem.”

CCC summoned Salem Burne. Mr. Burne always insisted that he was neither a physician nor a psychiatrist; he did not care to be associated with what he considered to be the drek of the professions. Salem Burne was a witch doctor; more precisely, a warlock. He made the most remarkable and penetrating analyses of disturbed people, not so much through his coven rituals of pentagons, incantations, incense and the like as through his remarkable sensitivity to Body English and his acute interpretation of it. And this might be witchcraft after all.

Mr. Burne entered Blaise Skiaki’s immaculate laboratory with a winning smile and Dr. Skiaki let out a rending howl of anguish.

“I told you to sterilize before you came.”

“But I did, Doctor. Faithfully.”

“You did not. You reek of anise, ilang-ilang and methyl anthranilate. You’ve polluted my day. Why?”

“Dr. Skiaki. I assure you that I—” Suddenly Salem Burne stopped. “Oh my God!” he groaned. “I used my wife’s towel this morning.”

Skiaki laughed and turned up the ventilators to full force. “I understand. No hard feelings. Now let’s get your wife out of here. I have an office about half a mile down the hall. We can talk there.”

They sat down in the vacant office and looked at each other. Mr. Burne saw a pleasant, youngish man with cropped black hair, small expressive ears, high telltale cheekbones, slitty eyes that would need careful watching and graceful hands that would be a dead giveaway.

“Now, Mr. Burne, how can I help you?” Skiaki said while his hands asked, “Why the hell have you come pestering me?”

“Dr. Skiaki, I’m a colleague in a sense; I’m a professional witch doctor. One crucial part of my ceremonies is the burning of various forms of incense, but they’re all rather conventional. I was hoping that your expertise might suggest something different with which I could experiment.”

“I see. Interesting. You’ve been burning stacte, onycha, galbanum, frankincense… that sort of thing?”

“Yes. All quite conventional.”

“Most interesting. I could, of course, make many suggestions for new experiments, and yet—” Here Skiaki stopped and stared into space.

After a long pause the warlock asked, “Is anything wrong, Doctor?”

“Look here,” Skiaki burst out. “You’re on the wrong track. It’s the burning of incense that’s conventional and old-fashioned, and trying different scents won’t solve your problem. Why not experiment with an altogether different approach?”

“And what would that be?”

“The Odophone principle.”

“Odophone?”

“Yes. There’s a scale that exists among scents as among sounds. Sharp smells correspond to high notes and heavy smells with low notes. For example, ambergris is in the treble clef while violet is in the bass. I could draw up a scent scale for you, running perhaps two octaves. Then it would be up to you to compose the music.”

“This is positively brilliant, Dr. Skiaki.”

“Isn’t it?” Skiaki beamed. “But in all honesty I should point out that we’re collaborators in brilliance. I could never have come up with the idea if you hadn’t presented me with a most original challenge.”

They made contact on this friendly note and talked shop enthusiastically, lunched together, told each other about themselves and made plans for the witchcraft experiments in which Skiaki volunteered to participate despite the fact that he was no believer in diabolism.

“And yet the irony lies in the fact that he is indeed devil-ridden,” Salem Burne reported.

The Chairman could make nothing of this.

“Psychiatry and diabolism use different terms for the same phenomenon,” Burne explained. “So perhaps I’d better translate. Those missing four hours are fugues.”

The Chairman was not enlightened. “Do you mean the musical expression, Mr. Burne?”

“No, sir. A fugue is also the psychiatric description of a more advanced form of somnambulism… sleepwalking.”

“Blaise Skiaki walks in his sleep?”

“Yes, sir, but it’s more complicated than that. The sleepwalker is a comparatively simple case. He is never in touch with his surroundings. You can speak to him, shout at him, address him by name, and he remains totally oblivious.”

“And the fugue?”

“In the fugue the subject is in touch with his surroundings. He can converse with you. He has awareness and memory for the events that take place within the fugue, but while he is within his fugue he is a totally different person from the man he is in real life. And—and this is most important, sir—after the fugue he remembers nothing of it”

“Then in your opinion Dr. Skiaki has these fugues two or three times a week.”

“That is my diagnosis, sir.”

“And he can tell us nothing of what transpires during the fugue?”

“Nothing.”

“Can you?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. There’s a limit to my powers.”

“Have you any idea what is causing these fugues?”

“Only that he is driven by something. I would say that he is possessed by the devil, but that is the cant of my profession. Others may use different terms—compulsion or obsession. The terminology is unimportant. The basic fact is that something possessing him is compelling him to go out nights to do—what? I don’t know. All I do know is that this diabolical drive most probably is what is blocking his creative work for you.”

One does not summon Gretchen Nunn, not even if you’re CCC whose common stock has split twenty-five times. You work your way up through the echelons of her staff until you are finally admitted to the Presence. This involves a good deal of backing and forthing between your staff and hers, and ignites a good deal of exasperation, so the Chairman was understandably put out when at last he was ushered into Miss Nunn’s workshop, which was cluttered with the books and apparatus she used for her various investigations.

Gretchen Nunn’s business was working miracles: not in the sense of the extraordinary, anomalous or abnormal brought about by a superhuman agency, but rather in the sense of her extraordinary and/or abnormal perception and manipulation of reality. In any situation she could and did achieve the impossible begged by her desperate clients, and her fees were so enormous that she was thinking of going public.

Naturally the Chairman had anticipated Miss Nunn as looking like Merlin in drag. He was flabbergasted to discover that she was a Watusi princess with velvety black skin, aquiline features, great black eyes, tall, slender, twentyish, ravishing in red.

She dazzled him with a smile, indicated a chair, sat in one opposite and said, “My fee is one hundred thousand. Can you afford it?”

“I can. Agreed.”

“And your difficulty—is it worth it?”

“It is.”

“Then we understand each other so far. Yes, Alex?”

The young secretary who had bounced into the workshop said, “Excuse me. LeClerque insists on knowing how you made the positive identification of the mold as extraterrestrial.”

Miss Nunn clicked her tongue impatiently. “He knows that I never give reasons. I only give results.”

“Yes’N.”

“Has he paid?”

“Yes’N.”

“All right. I’ll make an exception in his case. Tell him that it was based on the levo and dextro probability in amino acids and tell him to have a qualified exobiologist carry on from there. He won’t regret the cost.”

“Yes’N. Thank you.”

She turned to the Chairman as the secretary left. “You heard that. I only give results.”

“Agreed, Miss Nunn.”

“Now your difficulty. I’m not committed yet. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss Nunn.”

“Go ahead. Everything. Stream of consciousness, if necessary.”

An hour later she dazzled him with another smile and said, “Thank you. This one is really unique. A welcome change. It’s a contract, if you’re still willing.”

“Agreed, Miss Nunn. Would you like a deposit or an advance?”

“Not from CCC.”

“What about expenses? Should that be arranged?”

“No. My responsibility.”

“But what if you have to—if you’re required to—if—”

She laughed. “My responsibility. I never give reasons and I never reveal methods. How can I charge for them? Now don’t forget; I want that SkipTrace report.”

A week later Gretchen Nunn took the unusual step of visiting the Chairman in his office at CCC. “I’m calling on you, sir, to give you the opportunity of withdrawing from our contract.”

“Withdraw? But why?”

“Because I believe you’re involved in something far more serious than you anticipated:”

“But what?”

“You won’t take my word for it?”

“I must know.”

Miss Nunn compressed her lips. After a moment she sighed. “Since this is an unusual case I’ll have to break my rules. Look at this, sir.” She unrolled a large map of a segment of the Corridor and flattened it on the Chairman’s desk. There was a star in the center of the map. “Skiaki’s residence,” Miss Nunn said.

There was a large circle scribed around the star. “The limits to which a man can walk in two hours,” Miss Nunn said. The circle was crisscrossed by twisting trails all emanating from the star. “I got this from the SkipTrace report. This is how the tails traced Skiaki.”

“Very ingenious, but I see nothing serious in this, Miss Nunn.”

“Look closely at the trails. What do you see?”

“Why … each ends in a red cross.”

“And what happens to each trail before it reaches the red cross?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all, except—except that the dots change to dashes.”

“And that’s what makes it serious.”

“I don’t understand, Miss Nunn.”

“I’ll explain. Each cross represents the scene of a murder. The dashes represent the backtracking of the actions and whereabouts of each murder victim just prior to death:”

“Murder!”

“They could trace their actions just so far back and no further. SkipTrace could tail Skiaki just so far forward and no further. Those are the dots. The dates join up. What’s your conclusion?”

“It must be coincidence,” the Chairman shouted. “This brilliant, charming young man. Murder? Impossible!”

“Do you want the factual data I’ve drawn up?”

“No, I don’t. I want the truth. Proof-positive without any inferences from dots, dashes and dates.”

“Very well, Mr. Chairman. You’ll get it.”

She rented the professional beggar’s pitch alongside the entrance to Skiaki’s Oasis for a week. No success. She hired a Revival Band and sang hymns with it before the Oasis. No success. She finally made the contact after she promoted a job with the Organic Nursery. The first three dinners she delivered to the penthouse she came and went unnoticed; Skiaki was entertaining a series of girls, all scrubbed and sparkling with gratitude. When she made the fourth delivery he was alone and noticed her for the first time.

“Hey,” he grinned. “How long has this been going on?”

“Sir?”

“Since when has Organic been using girls for delivery boys?”

“I am a delivery person, sir,” Miss Nunn answered with dignity. “I have been working for the Organic Nursery since the first of the month.”

“Knock off the sir bit.”

“Thanks you, s-Dr. Skiaki.”

“How the devil do you know that I’ve got a doctorate?”

She’d slipped. He was listed at the Oasis and the Nursery merely as B. Skiaki, and she should have remembered. As usual, she turned her mistake into an advantage. “I know all about you, sir. Dr. Blaise Skiaki, Princeton, MIT, Dow Chemical. Chief Scent Chemist at CCC.”

“You sound like `Who’s Who.”

“That’s where I read it, Dr. Skiaki.”

“You read me up in `Who’s Who’? Why on earth?”

“You’re the first famous man I’ve ever met”

“Whatever gave you the idea that I’m famous, which I’m not.”

She gestured around. “I knew you had to be famous to live like this.”

“Very flattering. What’s your name, love?”

“Gretchen, sir.”

“What’s your last name?”

“People from my class don’t have last names, sir.”

“Will you be the delivery b-person tomorrow, Gretchen?”

“Tomorrow is my day off, Doctor.”

“Perfect. Bring dinner for two.”

So the affair began and Gretchen discovered, much to her astonishment, that she was enjoying it very much. Blaise was indeed a brilliant, charming young man, always entertaining, always considerate, always generous. In gratitude he gave her (remember he believed she came from the lowest Corridor class) one of his most prized possessions, a five-carat diamond he had synthesized at Dow. She responded with equal style: she wore it in her navel and promised that it was for his eyes only.

Of course he always insisted on her scrubbing up each time she visited, which was a bit of a bore; in her income bracket she probably had more fresh water than he did. However, one convenience was that she could quit her job at the Organic Nursery and attend to other contracts while she was attending to Skiaki.

She always left his penthouse around eleven-thirty but stayed outside until one. She finally picked him up one night just as he was leaving the Oasis. She’d memorized the Salem Burne report and knew what to expect. She overtook him quickly and spoke in an agitated voice. “Mistuh. Mistuh.” He stopped and looked at her kindly without recognition.

“Yes, my dear?”

“If yuh gone this way kin I come too. I scared.”

“Certainly, my dear.”

“Thanks, mistuh. I gone home. You gone home?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“Where you gone? Y’ain’t up to nothin’ bad, is you? I don’t want no part.”

“Nothing bad, my dear. Don’t worry.”

“Then what you up to?”

He smiled secretly. “I’m following something.”

“Somebody?”

“No, something.”

“What kine something?”

“My, you’re curious, aren’t you. What’s your name?”

“Gretchen. How ‘bout you?”

“Me?”

“What’s your name?”

“Wish. Call me Mr. Wish.” He hesitated for a moment and then said, “I have to turn left here.”

“Thas okay, Mistuh Wish. I go left, too.”

She could see that all his senses were pricking, and reduced her prattle to a background of unobtrusive sound. She stayed with him as he twisted, turned, sometimes doubling back, through streets, alleys, lanes and lots, always assuring him that this was her way home too. At a rather dangerous-looking refuse dump he gave her a fatherly pat and cautioned her to wait while he explored its safety. He explored, disappeared and never reappeared.

“I replicated this experience with Skiaki six times,” Miss Nunn reported to CCC. “They were all significant. Each time he revealed a little more without realizing it and without recognizing me. Burne was right. It is fugue.”

“And the cause, Miss Nunn?”

“Pheromone trails.”

“What?”

“I thought you gentlemen would know the term, being in the chemistry business. I see I’ll have to explain. It will take some time so I insist that you do not require me to describe the induction and deduction that led to my conclusion. Understood?”

“Agreed, Miss Nunn.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman. Surely you all know hormones, from the Greek hormaein, meaning `to excite’. They’re internal secretions which excite other parts of the body into action. Pheromones are external secretions which excite other creatures into action. It’s a mute chemical language.

“The best example of the pheromone language is the ant. Put a lump of sugar somewhere outside an ant hill. A forager will come across it, feed and return to the nest. Within an hour the entire commune will be single-filing the pheromone trail first laid down quite undeliberately by the first discoverer. It’s an unconscious but compelling stimulant.”

“Fascinating. And Dr. Skiaki?”

“He follows human pheromone trails. They compel him; he goes into fugue and follows them.”

“Ah! An outer aspect of The Nose. It makes sense, Miss Nunn. It really does. But what trails is he compelled to follow?”

“The deathwish.”

“Miss Nunn!”

“Surely you’re aware of this aspect of the human psyche. Many people suffer from an unconscious but powerful deathwish, especially in these despairing times. Apparently this leaves a pheromone trail which Dr. Skiaki senses, and he is compelled to follow it.”

“And then?”

“Apparently he grants the wish.”

“Apparently! Apparently!” the Chairman shouted. “I ask you for proof-positive of this monstrous accusation.”

“You’ll get it, sir. I’m not finished with Blaise Skiaki yet. There are one or two things I have to wrap up with him, and in the course of that I’m afraid he’s in for a shock. You’ll have your proof-pos-“

That was a half-lie from a woman half in love. She knew she had to see Blaise again but her motives were confused. To find out whether she really loved him, despite what she knew? To find out whether he loved her? To warn him or save him or run away with him? To fulfill her contract in a cool, professional style? She didn’t know. Certainly she didn’t know that she was in for a shock from Skiaki.

“Were you born blind?” he murmured that night.

She sat bolt upright in the bed. “What? Blind? What?”

“You heard me.”

“I’ve had perfect sight all my life.”

“Ah. Then you don’t know, darling. I rather suspected that might be it.”

“I certainly don’t know what you’re talking about, Blaise.”

“Oh, you’re blind all right,” he said calmly. “But you’ve never known because you’re blessed with a fantastic freak facility. You have extrasensory perception of other people’s senses. You see through other people’s eyes. For all I know you may be deaf and hear through their ears. You may feel with their skin. We must explore it some time.”

“I never heard of anything more absurd in all my life,” she said angrily.

“I can prove it to you, if you like, Gretchen.”

“Go ahead, Blaise. Prove the impossible.”

“Come into the lounge.”

In the living room he pointed to a vase, “What color is that?”

“Brown, of course.”

“What color is that?” A tapestry.

“Gray.”

“And that lamp?”

“Black.”

“QED,” Skiaki said. “It has been demonstrated.”

“What’s been demonstrated?”

“That you’re seeing through my eyes.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because I’m color-blind. That’s what gave me the clue in the first place.”

“What?”

He took her in his arms to quiet her trembling. “Darling Gretchen, the vase is green. The tapestry is amber and gold. The lamp is crimson. I can’t see the colors but the decorator told me and I remember. Now why the terror? You’re blind, yes, but you’re blessed with something far more miraculous than mere sight; you see through the eyes of the world. I’d change places with you any time.”

“It can’t be true,” she cried.

“It’s true, love.”

“What about when I’m alone?”

“When are you alone? When is anybody in the Corridor ever alone?”

She snatched up a shift and ran out of the penthouse, sobbing hysterically. She ran back to her own Oasis nearly crazed with terror. And yet she kept looking around and there were all the colors: red, orange, yellow, green, indigo, blue, violet. But there were also people swarming through the labyrinths of the Corridor as they always were, twenty-four hours a day.

Back in her apartment she was determined to put the disaster to the test. She dismissed her entire staff with stern orders to get the hell out and spend the night somewhere else. She stood at the door and counted them out, all amazed and unhappy. She slammed the door and looked around. She could still see.

“The lying son-of-a-bitch,” she muttered and began to pace furiously. She raged through the apartment, swearing venomously. It proved one thing; never get into personal relationships. They’ll betray you, they’ll try to destroy you, and she’d made a fool of herself. But why, in God’s name, did Blaise use this sort of dirty trick to destroy her? Then she smashed into something and was thrown back. She recovered her balance and looked to see what she had blundered into. It was a harpsichord.

“But … but I don’t own a harpsichord,” she whispered in bewilderment. She started forward to touch it and assure herself of its reality. She smashed into the something again, grabbed it and felt it. It was the back of a couch. She looked around frantically. This was not one of her rooms. The harpsichord. Vivid Brueghels hanging on the walls, Jacobean furniture, Linenfold paneled doors, Crewel drapes.

But … this is the … the Raxon apartment downstairs. I must be seeing through their eyes. I must … he was right. I . . : ‘ She closed her eyes and looked. She saw a melange of apartments, streets, crowds, people, events. She had always seen this sort of montage on occasion but had always thought it was merely the total visual recall which was a major factor in her extraordinary abilities and success. Now she knew the truth.

She began to sob again. She felt her way around the couch and sat down, despairing. When at last the convulsion spent itself she wiped her eyes courageously, determined to face reality. She was no coward. But when she opened her eyes she was shocked by another bombshell. She saw her familiar room in tones of gray. She saw Blaise Skiaki standing in the open door smiling at her. “Blaise?” she whispered.

“The name is Wish, my dear. Mr. Wish. What’s yours?”

“Blaise, for God’s sake, not me! Not me. I left no deathwish trail.”

“What’s your name, my dear? We’ve met before?”

“Gretchen,” she screamed. “I’m Gretchen Nunn and I have no deathwish.”

“Nice meeting you again, Gretchen,” he said in glassy tones, smiling the glassy smile of Mr. Wish. He took two steps toward her. She jumped up and ran behind the couch.

“Blaise, listen to me. You are not Mr. Wish. There is no Mr. Wish. You are Dr. Blaise Skiaki, a famous scientist. You are chief chemist at CCC and have created many wonderful perfumes.”

He took another step toward her, unwinding the scarf he wore around his neck.

“Blaise, I’m Gretchen. We’ve been lovers for two months. You must remember. Try to remember. You told me about my eyes tonight … being blind. You must remember that.”

He smiled and whirled the scarf into a cord.

“Blaise, you’re suffering from fugue. A blackout. A change of psyche. This isn’t the real you. It’s another creature driven by a pheromone. But I left no pheromone trail. I couldn’t. I’ve never wanted to die.”

“Yes, you do, my dear. Only happy to grant your wish. That’s why I’m called Mr. Wish.”

She squealed like a trapped rat and began darting and dodging while he closed in on her. She feinted him to one side, twisted to the other with a clear chance of getting out the door ahead of him, only to crash into three grinning goons standing shoulder to shoulder. They grabbed and held her.

Mr. Wish did not know that he also left a pheromone trail. It was a pheromone trail of murder.

“Oh, it’s you again,” Mr. Wish sniffed.

“Hey, old buddy-boy, got a looker this time, huh?”

“And loaded. Dig this layout”

“Great. Makes up for the last three which was nothin’. Thanks, buddy-boy. You can go home now.”

“Why don’t I ever get to kill one?” Mr. Wish exclaimed petulantly.

“Now, now. No sulks. We got to protect our bird dog. You lead. We follow and do the rest.”

“And if anything goes wrong, you’re the setup,” one of the goons giggled.

“Go home, buddy-boy. The rest is ours. No arguments. We already explained the standoff to you. We know who you are but you don’t know who we are.”

“I know who I am,” Mr. Wish said with dignity. “I am Mr. Wish and I still think I have the right to kill at least one.”

“All right, all right. Next time. That’s a promise. Now blow.”

As Mr. Wish exited resentfully, they ripped Gretchen naked and let out a huge wow when they saw the five-carat diamond in her navel. Mr. Wish turned and saw its scintillation too. “But that’s mine,” he said in a confused voice. “That’s only for my eyes. I-Gretchen said she would never-” Abruptly Dr. Blaise Skiaki spoke in a tone accustomed to command: “Gretchen, what the hell are you doing here? What’s this place? Who are these creatures? What’s going on?”

When the police arrived they found three dead bodies and a composed Gretchen Nunn sitting with a laser pistol in her lap. She told a perfectly coherent story of forcible entry, an attempt at armed rape and robbery, and how she was constrained to meet force with force. There were a few loopholes in her account. The bodies were not armed, but if the men had said they were armed Miss Nunn, of course, would have believed them. The three were somewhat battered, but goons were always fighting. Miss Nunn was commended for her courage and cooperation.

After her final report to the Chairman (which was not the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth) Miss Nunn received her check and went directly to the perfume laboratory, which she entered without warning. Dr. Skiaki was doing strange and mysterious things with pipettes, flasks and reagent bottles. Without turning he ordered, “Out. Out. Out.”

“Good morning, Dr. Skiaki.”

He turned, displaying a mauled face and black eyes, and smiled. “Well, well, well. The famous Gretchen Nunn, I presume. Voted Person of the Year three times in succession.”

“No, sir. People from my class don’t have last names.”

“Knock off the sir bit.”

“Yes s-Mr. Wish.”

“Oi!” He winced. “Don’t remind me of that incredible insanity. How did everything go with the Chairman?”

“I snowed him. You’re off the hook.”

“Maybe I’m off his hook but not my own. I was seriously thinking of having myself committed this morning.”

“What stopped you?”

“Well, I got involved in this patchouli synthesis and sort of forgot.”

She laughed. “You don’t have to worry. You’re saved.”

“You mean cured?”

“No, Blaise. Not any more than I’m cured of my blindness. But we’re both saved because we’re aware. We can cope now.”

He nodded slowly but not happily.

“So what are you going to do today?” she asked cheerfully.

“Struggle with patchouli?”

“No,” he said gloomily. “I’m still in one hell of a shock. I think I’ll take the day off.”

“Perfect. Bring two dinners.”