Radio Free Albemuth

"Yes," she said.

"And kill Nicholas."

"We did not plan that; we did not know he was satellite-controlled. Phil, there is no alternative. Your friend is no longer a -"

"Vivian," I said, "let me talk to Nicholas before you kill him. One final time."

"Will you cooperate afterward? Regarding your books?"

"Yes," I said, although I did not intend to; I was trying to buy time for Nicholas.

Vivian picked up a walkie-talkie, said into it, "Hold up on Nicholas Brady. He's to be taken to a cell instead, for now."

The walkie-talkie sputtered into response "Sorry, Ms Kaplan; he's already dead. Wait - just a minute and I'll check." A pause. "Yes, he's dead."

"Okay," Vivian said. "Thanks." To me she said calmly, Too late, Phil. It's police policy not to delay in - "

I lunged at her, trying to hit her in the face. In my mind a fantasy wiped out reality; in my mind I hit her in the face, right in the mouth, I felt teeth break and fly into bits, I felt her nose and features collapse. But it was a dream, a wish and nothing more; immediately the FAPers were all over me, between me and her, hitting me. A gun butt slammed against my head, and the scene - and the dream - were gone.

I recovered consciousness, not in a hospital bed but in a jail cell.

Sitting up, I felt pain everywhere. My hair was matted with blood, I presently discovered. They had given me no medical attention, but I did not care. Nicholas was dead, and by now Rachel and Joh

Even, I thought, with the help of Valis.

My friend is dead, I said to myself. The friend I have had most of my life. There is now no Nicholas Brady to believe crazy things, to listen to, to enjoy.

And it would never be rectified. No force, no superior entity would arrive and make everything right. The tyra

And I will never write a book again, I realized; they will all be - have been, in fact - written for me, by the authorities. And those who followed my writing and believed what I had to say will be listening to the voice of anonymous flunkies in Washington, DC, offices, men wearing fashionable ties and modern expensive suits. Men saying they are me but who are not. Creatures rasping like snakes in imitation of my own style and getting away with it.

And I have no recourse, I said to myself. None.

Two cops entered the jail cell. They had been watching on closed-circuit TV; I saw the sca

"Come with us."

I went with them, slowly, painfully, down a corridor, having trouble walking. They led me down hall after hall, until, ahead, I saw a double set of doors marked MORGUE.

"So you can see for yourself," one said, pressing a bell.

A moment later I stood gazing down at the body of Nicholas Brady. There was no doubt that he was dead. They had shot him in the heart, making identification of his features easy.

"All right," one of the cops said. "Back to your cell."

"Why was I shown that?" I asked, on the way back.

Neither cop answered.

As I sat in the cell I realized that I knew why they had shown me Nicholas's body. It told me that it was all true, what they had done to him, what they would do to me, what they were probably doing to the others. It was not a fakery to frighten me; it was grim reality. This time the police were not lying.

But, I thought, maybe some of the Aramchek organization still remains. Just because they got Nicholas doesn't mean they got them all.

The death of men, I thought, is a dreadful thing. The death of good men is worse still. The tragedy of the world. Especially when it is needless.

I half dozed for a while, aching and miserable, still in shock from the loss of my friend. Finally I was awakened from my trance state by Vivian Kaplan entering the cell. She carried a glass in her hand, which she held down to me.

"Bourbon," she said. "Jim Beam. Straight."

I drank it. What the hell, I thought. It was the real thing - it smelled and tasted like bourbon. It made me feel better at once.

Vivian seated herself on the cot facing me; she held a handful of papers and she looked pleased.

"You got everyone," I said.

"We got the record company before they even had a tape. We got the material to be inserted, too." Examining a typed sheet of paper she read, ""Join the Party!" No, it's called „Come to the Party!" They say „join the party" later on. And here's another: „A grand chick saved me, put back together my whole world." The background turns into „Aramchek saved the world." Isn't that gross? I mean, really."

"It would have worked," I said,

Vivian said bitingly, ""Is everybody president at the party?" I wonder which of them made up this stuff. And they intended to flood the market with this garbage. Maybe it would have influenced people subconsciously. We use this technique too, but not as crudely."

"And not for the same ends," I said.

"You want to see the manuscript for your next book?"

"No," I said.

Vivian said, Til have it brought to you. It has to do with an invasion of Earth by alien beings who rape people's minds. The Mind-Screwers it's called."

"Christ," I said.

"Do you like the title? As they say, if you like the title you'll love the book. These hideous things come here from across space and work their way into people's heads like worms. They're really horrible. They come from a planet where it's night all the time, but because they have no eyes they think it's daylight all the time. They eat dirt. They really are worms."

"What's the moral of the book?" I said.

"It's just entertainment. It has no moral. Well, it -never mind."

I foresaw the moral. People should not trust creatures different from themselves: anything alien, from another planet, was vile and disgusting. Man was the one pure species. He stood alone against a hostile universe... probably led by his glorious Fiihrer.

"Is mankind saved from these blind worms?" I asked.

"Yes. By their Supreme Council, who are genetically higher humans, cloned from one aristocratic - "

"I hate to tell you," I said, "but it's been done. Back in the thirties and forties."

Vivian said, "It shows the virtues of humanity. Despite some of its glaring luridness, it's a good novel; it teaches a valuable message."

"Confidence in leadership," I said. "Is the one aristocrat the Supreme Council is cloned from named Ferris Fremont?"

After a pause Vivian said, "In certain ways they resemble President Fremont, yes."

"This is a nightmare," I said, feeling dizzy. "Is this what you came here to tell me?"

"I came to tell you I'm sorry Nicholas died before you could talk to him. You can talk to the other one, the woman he was conspiring with, Sadassa Aramchek. Do you know her?"

"No," I said. "I don't know her."

"Do you want to talk to her?"

"No," I said. Why would I want to talk with her? I wondered.

"You can tell her how he died," Vivian said.

"Are you going to shoot her?" I said.

Vivian nodded.

"I'll talk to her," I said.

Signaling to a guard, Vivian Kaplan said, "Good. You can tell her better than we can that Nicholas is dead. We haven't told her. And also you can tell her -"

Til say what I want to say," I said.

"You can tell her that after you're through talking to her," Vivian continued, unperturbed, "we will shoot her too."