Only his voice was jarring: it was at normal conversational volume, which meant that it was far too loud to be in scale with himself or his (and Michelis’) surroundings. It seemed so loud to Michelis, indeed, that in his reverie he almost missed the content of Egtverchi’s final speech. Only when Egtverchi had bowed ironically and faded away and his voice died, leaving behind only the omni-present muted insect buzz, did the meaning penetrate. Michelis sat where he was, stunned. A full thirty seconds of commercial for Mammale Bifalco’s Delicious Instant Knish Mix went by before he remembered to put his finger over the 3-V’s cut-off stud. Then this year’s Bridget Bifalco in turn faded in mid-mix, smothered before she reached her famous brogue tag-line ('Give it t’ me a minute, dharlin’, till I give it a lhashin’.') The scurrying electrons in the phosphor complex migrated back to the atoms from which they had been driven by the miniature de Broglie scanner imbedded in the picture frame. The atoms resumed their chemical identity, the molecules cooled, and the screen became a static reproduction of Paul Klee’s “Caprice in February.” The principle, Michelis recalled with gray irrelevancy, had emerged out of d’Averoigne’s first “Petard” paper, the count’s only venture into applied math, published when he was seventeen.
“What does he mean?” Liu said faintly. “I don’t understand him at all any more. He calls it a demonstration —but what can he possibly demonstrate by that? It’s childish!”
“Yes,” Michelis said. For the moment he could think of nothing else to say. He needed to get his temper back; he was losing it more and more easily these days. That had been one of the reasons for his urgency in marrying Liu: he needed her calmness, for his own was vanishing with frightening rapidity.
No calmness seemed to be passing from her to him now. Even the apartment, originally such a source of satisfaction and repose for them both, felt like a trap. It was far above ground, in one of the mostly unused project buildings on the upper East Side of Manhattan. Originally Liu had had a far smaller set of rooms in the same building, and Michelis, after he had got used to the idea, had had them both installed in the present apartment with only a minimum of wirepulling. It was not customary, it was certainly not fashionable, and they were officially warned that it was considered dangerous—the gangs raided surface structures now and then; but apparently it was no longer outright illegal, if one had the money to live that high up in the slums.
Given the additional space, the artist buried inside Liu’s demure technician’s exterior had run quietly wild. In the green glow of concealed light which washed the apartment, Michelis was surrounded by what seemed to be a miniature jungle. On small tables stood Japanese gardens with real Ming trees or dwarf cedars in them. An oriental lamp was fashioned out of a piece of fantastically sculptured driftwood. Long, deep, woven flower boxes ran completely around the room at eye level; they were thickly planted with ivy, wandering Jew, rubber plants, philodendron, and other non-flowering species, and benind each box a mirror ran up to the ceiling, unbroken anywhere except by the placidly witty Klee reproduction which was the 3-V set; the painting, made almost wholly of detached angles and glyphs like the symbols of mathematics, was a welcome oasis of dryness for which Liu had paid a premium—QBC’s stock “covers” were mostly Sargents and van Goghs. Since the light tubes were hidden behind the planting boxes, the room gave an effect of extraterrestrial exuberance kept under control only with the greatest difficulty.
“I know what he means,” Michelis said at last. “I just don’t know quite how to put it. Let me think a minute—why don’t you get dinner while I do it? We’d better eat early. We’re going to have visitors, that’s a cinch.”
“Visitors? But—All right, Mike.”
Michelis walked to the glass wall and looked out onto the sun porch. All of Liu’s flowering plants were out there, a real garden, which had to be kept sealed off from the rest of the apartment; for in addition to being an ardent amateur gardener, Liu bred bees. There was a colony of them there, making singular and exotic honeys from the congeries of blossoms Liu had laid out so carefully. The honey was fabulous and ever-changing, sometimes too bitter to eat except in tiny fork-touches like Chinese mustard, sometimes containing a heady touch of opium from the sticky hybrid poppies that nodded in a soldierly squad along the sun porch railing, sometimes sickly-sweet and insipid until, with a surprisingly small amount of glassware, Liu converted it into a liqueur that mounted to the head like a breeze from the Garden of Allah. The bees that made it were tetraploid monsters the size of hummingbirds, with tempers as bad as Michelis’ own was getting to be; only a few of them could kill even a big man. Luckily, they flew badly in the gusts common at this altitude, and would starve anywhere but in Liu’s garden, otherwise Liu would never have been licensed to keep them on an open sun porch in the middle of the city. Michelis had been more than a little wary of them at first, but lately they had begun to fascinate him: their apparent intelligence was almost as phenomenal as their size and viciousness.
“Damn.” Liu said behind him.
“What’s the matter?”
“Omelettes again. That’s the second wrong number I’ve dialed this week.”
Both the oath—mild though it was—and the error were uncharacteristic. Mike felt a twinge, a mixture of compassion and guilt. Liu was changing; she had never been so distractible before. Was he responsible?
“It’s all right. I don’t mind. Let’s eat.”
“All right.”
They ate silently, but Michelis was conscious of the pressure of inquiry behind Liu’s still expression. The chemist thought furiously, angry with himself, and yet unable to phrase what he wanted to say. He should never have got her into this at all. No, that couldn’t have been prevented; she had been the logical scientist to handle Egtverchi in his infancy—probably nobody else could have brought him through it even this well. But surely it should have been possible to keep her from becoming emotionally involved—
No, that had not been possible either; that was the woman of it. And the man of it, now that he was forced to think about his own role. It was no use; he simply did not know what he should think; Egtverchi’s broadcast had rattled him beyond the point of logical thought. He was going to wind up with his usual bad compromise with Liu, which was to say nothing at all. But that would not do either.
And yet it had been a simple enough piece of foolery that the Lithian had perpetrated—childish, as Liu had said. Egtverchi had been urged to be off beat, rebellious, irresponsible, and he had come through in spades. Not only had he voiced his disrespect for all established institutions and customs, but he had also challenged his audience to show the same disrespect. In the closing mornents of his broadcast, he had even told them how: they were to mail anonymous, insulting messages to Egtverchi’s own sponsors.
“A postcard will do,” he had said, gently enough, through his grinning chops. “Just make the message pungent. If you hate that powdered concrete they call a knish mix, write and tell them so. If you can eat the knishes but our commercials make you sick, write them about that, and don’t pull any punches. If you loathe me, tell the Bifalcos that, too, and make sure you’re spitting mad about it. I’ll read the five messages I think in the worst possible taste on my broad—”
’To nobody,” Michelis said angrily.
“Quite so. And yet I repeat that I didn’t select it deliberately for shock value, Dr. Michelis. It’s a bagatelle— very mild, compared to some of the stuff we’ve been getting. This Snake obviously has an audience of borderline madmen, and he means to use it. That’s why I came to see you. We think you might have some idea as to what he intends to use it for.”
“For nothing, if you people have any control over what you yourselves do,” Michelis said. “Why don’t you cut him off the air? If he’s poisoning it, then you don’t have any other choice.”
“One man’s poison is another man’s knish mix,” the UN man said smoothly. “The Bifalcos don’t see this—the way we do. They have their own analysts, and they know as well as we do that they’re going to get more than seven and a half million dirty postcards in the next week. But they like the idea. In fact, they’re positively wriggling with delight. They think it will sell products. They will probably give the Snake a whole half hour, solely sponsored by them, if the response comes through as predicted—and it will.”
“Why can’t you cut Egtverchi off anyhow?” Liu said.
“The charter prevents us from interfering with the right of free speech. As long as the Bifalcos put up the money, we are obligated to keep the program on the air. It’s a good principle at bottom; we’ve had experiences with it before that threatened to turn out nastily, but in every case we sweated them out and the public got bored with them eventually. But that was a different public—the broad public, which used to be mostly sane. The Snake obviously has a selected audience, and that’s not sane at all. This time—for the first time—we are thinking of interfering. That’s why we came to you.”
“I can’t help you,” Michelis said.
“You can, and you will, Dr. Michelis. I’m talking from under both my hats now. QBC wants him off the air,
