Existence

soul-twisting poison. He ingested a medicine used only to deny addicts the feedback pleasure of their high. And so, when he did not get the accustomed jolt from sanctimonious rage, he upped the level of his rancor, in search of the buzz, the jizz, the zing.

And when that didn’t work, he upped it again, and again, as addicts do. Never pausing to think Maybe I had better stop now, he kept hurtling faster and faster toward the edge-as addicts do-ignoring reason or consequences, in search of satisfaction. To scratch an accustomed itch that was now beyond his ability to control.

That’s it. That was my scheme and my experiment.

That it worked, is inarguable.

It is also undeniable that I broke the law, along with the codes of my profession. I administered a legal medicine, for an appropriately diagnosed illness… but I did so in an unethical and illicit way, never consulting my patient or warning him of possible outcomes. And for that I should, by all rights, go to jail. Certainly, I am willing to take my punishment, according to the tradition of Gandhi, with a measure of cheerful acceptance.

Only, meanwhile, it is done. Senator Strong cannot escape blame for his outrageous behavior by claiming “It was the drug!” The opinions he expressed were entirely his own and no one forced him to express them. His behavior occurred because he is an addict-a term that the public rightfully disdains.

Above all, now millions will think about all this. They will view differently all the self-righteousness junkies in their midst-even ones they agree with! They will see how such people use their relentless passion and addict stamina to take over most advocacy groups, at all ends of the political and social spectrum, turning argument into jihad and negotiation into stark war between good and evil… or evil versus good.

You and your neighbors will never view the fervent ardor of ecstatic anger the same way. Now you’ll see it and recognize the symptoms of an illness-almost exactly the same as smoking crack or opium.

And, maybe then you’ll feel empowered to face down the vociferously indignant. You may even decide to join together with other mild-mannered, rational, and sensible folk, to reclaim the gracious gift of our ancestors. The power of calmly reasoning together. If that happens, I’ll take my punishment with serenity. A martyr for calm adulthood.

Unless that drive-for dramatic martyrdom-has been my own sanctimonious trip! I admit it’s a possibility. Any honest person ought to.

Oh, but then, if you are watching this right now, I am probably dead. So I matter even less than I ever did.

Anyway, this was never about me. Or even Senator Strong.

It’s about us.

51.

INSPIRATION

Hamish pulled off the tru-vus, which had gone blurry, somehow. Perhaps they were defective. He wiped his eyes with the back of a wrist.

What happened to Betsby? Did the senator arrange to have him killed? But that jerk Strong promised he would keep hands off, till I reported my results!

Hamish put the immersion glasses back on. Blits flurried around the periphery of vision, responding to his attention gaze, pupil dilation, and tooth-click or subvocal commands. Hamish was so out of practice that involuntary eye-flicks and grunts kept causing ripples, disrupting the feedback loops, like pebbles dropped into a pond.

Wriggles intervened. His little digaissistant swept away all the mere gossip and rumors, picking, distilling, and summarizing facts.

Apparently, Dr. Roger Betsby had fallen to his death from a second-level balcony of the Detroit-Pontiac domed stadium, pushed over (inadvertently, according to preliminary reports) by a convulsing patient. One who was under care for an addiction ailment-how ironic.

Of course, some apparent “accidents” weren’t. So, police officials promised to investigate any possibility of foul play, especially now that Betsby’s death-confession had begun climbing the charts, accompanied by a tide of conspiracy theories. Hamish made a mental note to send one of his favorite contract operatives to lend the authorities a hand. He felt a personal stake in getting to the bottom of this.

Damn. I’ve found so few minds I respect.

If Strong did this, instead of leaving me to handle Betsby, then our deal is off. A lot of deals are off.

Hamish closed his eyes.

Unbidden, a steady stream of fantasies had been bubbling through his mind, the last few days-as if his subconscious were trying to find a way around the dour conundrum offered by the Artifact aliens. As always, the ideas manifested as dramatic plots for a book, or movie, or interactive. Till now, each of them had seemed-well- untenable, even cheesy. Borrowed, blatantly, from earlier works of fictional paranoia. Disappointment with himself had darkened his mood.

Only now, he found himself mulling part of the posthumous confession of the man some were calling the Saint of the Silverdome. Hamish always prided himself in his memory for good dialogue.

It is undeniable that I broke the law… I administered a legal medicine for a real illness… but in an illegal way, never consulting my patient. For that I’ll go to jail… accepting punishment according to the traditions of Gandhi and the other great martyrs, with acceptance.

Oh, that was good stuff. Truly memorable. In a way, Hamish kind of envied Roger Betsby, whose real experiment had not been medical, but social. Perhaps all of this publicity, heightened by his death, would indeed turn the attention of a fickle public toward the lesson the Doctor sought to teach. A lesson about maturity versus sanctimonious fury.

Maybe. Briefly.

But that outcome wasn’t what concerned Hamish. No, what struck him was a sudden, bolt-like realization. Awed by Betsby’s innovative technique for getting a point across.

A confession is always more credible than a denial.

Hamish felt a chasm in the pit of his stomach, a cavity made up of fear. The action that he suddenly found himself contemplating would change everything. There were terrible dangers, possibly as great as the ones that Roger Betsby faced. But also potential rewards. Plus a very real chance to alter the world, something that his genre fictions-despite all their dire-warning intensity-had never achieved.

Could I actually do this? Shall I study the idea first? Working out all the pros and cons and details?

Or would that only risk losing the moment, the sheer, impulsive genius!

In fact, there was only a very narrow window of time. Worldwide economies were teetering as thousands committed suicide, tens of thousands rioted, millions stayed home from work, and billions muttered angrily at their tru-vus and tellai-screens, driven into a contagious funk by the message of the artilens. And, while regular political institutions teetered, certain cabals of planetary power dealers were getting set to make their big move. One that Hamish had striven for years to assist-

– only now he felt a new certainty-that he did not want the “solution” being offered by Tenskwatawa, or the oligarchs, after all.

* * *

“Mr. Brookeman?”

His eyelids parted. Slightly startled, Hamish looked down to see the petite lab director, half his height, Dr. Nolan, standing just a meter away.

“Mr. Brookeman, I want to repeat our apology for having preempted your reserved time with Tarsus. I’m sure