federal charges against you dropped. That is not a threat? It seems like a threat to me.”
“You mean Kathy Bowen, that lovely, talented actress? That sweet girl who has seen her career blossom since she joined Poweressence? The Kathy Bowen we knew would be attending that state dinner? She did it on her own.”
“With Kathy Bowen's boobs, I could have been Jayne Mansfield. Yes, that Kathy Bowen— the one who danced with the President and said he was going to die if he didn't lay off you. That lovely girl who will never be invited to the White House again. That one.”
“She's a movie star,” said Rubin. “Lots of movie stars understand Poweressence because they already receive positive vibrations from the universal force.”
“I have movie stars as clients too. I know movie stars. They receive their vibrations from the universal farce. I got one movie star who believes he is the reincarnation of Genghis Khan. I got another star who bathes her duff in seaweed. I got another star who believes that blowing up children's hospitals will further the Marxist cause. I got more movie stars than I know what to do with, and I have yet to meet one with enough sound judgment to make it legitimately into junior high school.”
“Not only are we not copping a plea but we are going to be found innocent,” said Beatrice.
“She's right,” said Rubin.
“Well, if you get nearly eternal terms, don't blame me.”
“Of course I will,” said Beatrice. “If you don't have a witness against us, then I certainly will blame you if we are found guilty.”
“Don't count on that kind of luck,” said Glidden. “Less than one percent of witnesses retract their testimony. The odds are a hundred to one against you.”
“On the contrary,” said Beatrice. “The odds are in our favor. Can I get you a bandage for your cheek wounds?”
“You might try letting the blood flow stem itself naturally,” said Rubin. “In course number thirty-eight, we offer that technique for $1,285, but you can have it free. It's a general-health maintenance program.”
“I'll take the bandage,” said Glidden.
“I'll get it for you,” said Beatrice. “Rubin has a lot to do.”
Rubin Dolomo shuffled out of the room, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He wheezed his way down to the spacious basement and ground out his cigarette on the concrete floor. Neatly hung up on one wall were several dozen rubber suits. He got into one with great effort. He hated the way it stuck to him, hated the weight and heat it concentrated on his body. Normal breathing was hard enough for him, but the suit made it almost impossible. But Beatrice was right— he had a lot to do and no time to waste. He snapped on the rubber face mask and adjusted the goggles.
The founder of Poweressence, the hope of humanity, waddled to the rear of the basement, where an airtight door, like that of a submarine compartment, was set into the wall. He turned the wheel unlocking the door, and entered. The five herbs and three chemicals that made up the formula lay in separate barrels. As Rubin ground the herbs, his goggles began darkening, a sign he was going to pass out soon. But he knew he could make it. He'd made it before.
While the fresh potion dripped through a sieve and into a container, Rubin nearly collapsed into one of the large gray plastic barrels. He heard his heart beat in the suit, but did not hear the container close. He could smell the rubber, even taste it on his tongue.
He got out of the room just in time to make it to the shower. With his last ounce of energy, he kicked the large button on the floor and the room flooded with a harsh hot spray. Dolomo lay down to conserve his vanishing breath. When he felt the spray stop he put the container into a small vat and pushed the vat to a small conveyor belt set into one wall.
Rubin Dolomo cut himself free of the suit with an X-Acto knife and a great deal of effort. When he regained his breath he met the little container again in another room, but this time he was separated from it by a glass wall fitted with protective rubber arms. The container had been jostled along the conveyor route and now it rested on its side. Rubin slipped his arms into the rubber sheaths set into a window and set it right atop a little table. On the table was a single sheet of pink stationery and a matching envelope addressed to a former Poweressence devotee, one who felt he had been robbed. With his rubber fingers, Rubin opened the container of fresh formula, then took a small cotton swab from underneath the table and dipped it into the vial. He dabbed a touch of the formula in the upper-left-hand corner of the pink sheet of paper. Then he put the swab back into the formula and resealed the container.
Now came the hard part. Rubin had to fold the paper and put it in the envelope. Using rubber hands, this simple task took twenty minutes. By the time he was finished Rubin was sweating.
He lit a cigarette, threw a Valium and a high-blood pressure pill into his mouth, and then wheezed his way to a reception room, where the messenger waited for the letter.
He was a middle-aged executive who credited his rise to the vice-presidency of his corporation to his new self-confidence, and he credited his confidence to Poweressence. He believed that the United States government was persecuting the one religion that could save the world. He had nurtured that belief in an Idaho chapter.
Rubin had paid the chapter chairman fifteen hundred dollars for this volunteer. But he was worth it.
“Let me get this straight. I make sure no one but the traitor touches the upper-left-hand corner of the letter inside this envelope. I go directly to the building he is being kept in, and I announce that I am a friend who has a message from his sweetheart. And that is it. Simple.”
With that, the executive opened the letter just to make sure that his perception of an upper-left-hand corner jibed with Rubin Dolomo's. That determined, he shook hands with the man who had pulled his life back from the brink of wretchedness.
“Mr. Dolomo, you are one of the great minds of our time. And I am honored, deeply honored, to have this opportunity to serve Poweressence.”
“Watch the letter. Your finger is touching the corner. Watch the letter.”
“What letter?” asked the executive.
“The one in your hand,” said Rubin.
The executive looked down at his hand and the pink paper, which he was gripping by the corner.
“Did you just give me this letter? Or am I supposed to give it to you? Who is it for?”
“All right,” said Rubin wearily. “Put down that thing you have in your hand. We're going to the recovery rooms.”
The executive handed the letter to Rubin. Rubin stepped back.
“Put it down. Down. On the floor. Down,” said Rubin. Then he guided the man by an elbow to the rear of the mansion.
“Tell me,” said Rubin. “If you had a choice of something to play with, would it be a rattle, a toy train, a video game, or a woman and fifth of bourbon?”
“A choice? Wonderful. Why are you so nice?”
“It helps us figure which room you go in.”
“I'll take the bourbon,” said the executive.
“Good,” said Rubin. “You didn't get much. I'm getting pretty good with dosages.”
They passed one room that was a din of screaming. The executive could not help peering in a small glass opening in the door. The inside was a horror. Grown men and women were rolling around on the floor, some wetting their pants, others pulling hair, still others were crying.
“I didn't know the dose then,” said Rubin. “But we take care of them. We are a responsible religion.”
“That's awful,” said the executive. “There's a grown man there sucking his thumb.”
“That's Wilbur Smot.”
“He's smiling.”
“A lot of them do,” said Rubin. “How do you feel?”
“Not that good. Average, really. I just can't seem to recall what I'm doing here.”
“Do you remember joining Poweressence?”
“I remember taking a character test back in Norfolk, Virginia. Did I join?”
“You'll be all right in a while,” said Rubin.
They passed another room full of grown-ups but these were engrossed in electric trains and dolls. In the next
