coherence! Here and gone, but it was a total image. Audio? Visual? You still

  can’t tell, but you know that you had all the information, even if you weren’t

  able to interpret it. It was, say, a complete sentence, subject predicate

  adverbs adjectives expletives articles punctuation dependent clauses, which

  Hamlin read or heard or spoke out loud. It was, say, a full sweep of Hamlin’s

  optical reservoir taking in the entire visual input of a fiftieth of a second.

  It was, say, a spear of abstract thought crossing Hamlin’s consciousness from

  northwest to southeast. Let us now relate such random rootless inputs to our own

  bank of data. So that we may evaluate. So that we may interpret. So that we can

  tell sight from sound from cognition. Thus. And thus. We string our telegraph

  wire across miles and miles of desert and at last it brings us messages.

  Such as:

  A sense of motion. Jolt jolt jolt, stride stride stride, Hamlin is going

  somewhere.

  A sense of position. Hamlin is standing upright.

  A sense of muscular activity. Hips and thighs in action, soles of feet hitting

  pavement. Hamlin is walking.

  A sense of environment. Bright light. Sunlight? General warmth and humidity.

  Morning? A summer morning? Street noises. He is walking along a street.

  A sense of vision, coming jerkily into focus, now clear. Office buildings,

  pedestrians, vehicles. A street in Old Manhattan?

  Riding along as though seated on Hamlin’s back, legs around his neck, Macy felt

  a sharp pang of discontinuity at the absence of proper transitions. At the

  moment of loss of consciousness this body had been grappling in a slum-building

  corridor with an unknown assailant, late at night. Now it was walking down a

  busy daytime street. How much time had passed? What was the outcome of that

  struggle? What injuries, if any, did the body sustain? Where is Hamlin heading

  now? None of these things could readily be determined with the resources

  presently at Macy’s command. One can try to improve one’s resources, though.

  The logical next step, Macy told himself, is to hook into Hamlin’s

  consciousness. So I can read him and maybe hamper him if not entirely control

  him. A tentacle into the cerebral cortex. But where is the cerebral cortex? Macy

  could only repeat his previous trial-and-error tactics, groping here, groping

  there. No luck, though. Impossible to grasp the handles of Hamlin’s cerebration.

  Macy’s efforts succeeded only in giving Hamlin’s memory-storage regions a high

  colonic, stirring turbid strata of ancient events. Across the screen of Macy’s

  awareness floated a cloud of mucky particles of experience, miscellaneous rapes,

  seductions, artistic triumphs, investment decisions, childhood traumas, and

  indignations, drifting murkily about. While the sensory inputs continued to show

  Hamlin swinging jauntily along down the sunny street.

  Now for the first time came desolate moments for Macy. A feeling of

  hopelessness. A realization of the reality of this unreal captivity. Admissions

  of defeat, the inevitability and finality of. It was to be expected that he’d

  catch me and lock me up in here. A stronger ego than mine. Wilier. He lived

  thirty-five years and I lived only four. A criminal mentality, too. He knows how

  to defend himself. I’ll never be able to meddle with him as he did with me. I’ll

  never get out of here.

  But as he mourned for himself Macy automatically went on searching for the right

  place to plug in, trying this and that and this, marching into one blind alley

  after another, battering himself against dead ends and withdrawing to try again.

  And abruptly he made his connection, tapping into the line he sought and drawing

  a staggering numbing dizzying but ultimately satisfying current, the pure juice,

  the unimpeded flow, the hefty amperage of Hamlin’s unfettered soul.

  Go to see Gargantua first almost there ten minutes more find out what’s been

  going on the business the buying and selling my price these days it must have

  gone up plenty I bet they figure I’m dead the cocksuckers no more Hamlins so

  double the price every week well why not why not why not and then out to the

  studio all boarded up I bet just take a little look of course I’ll have to pose

  as Macy that will present some problems won’t even be able to let Gargan know

  the truth outright although I’ll drop him some hints that fucking mass of meat

  he’s clever he’s clever he’ll figure it out won’t say a word a buck or two in it

  for him you bet your fat ass there is so then to the studio a sentimental

  journey I mean I need to go there like a shrine like my own shrine like like all

  dusty I bet the Goths and the Vandals fuck fuck fuck they bust everything up

  maybe I wasn’t so pleasant a guy but I had a decent respect for property except

  of course all those cunts if you consider a cunt property and anyway I was crazy

  then much better now purified by adversity my head clear at last rid of Macy

  stuck him where he belongs the poor dumb shit no personality at all just a

  construct a plastic man well it wasn’t his fault but it wasn’t mine either the

  survival of the fittest don’t you see Darwin was no dope and then I’ll visit

  Noreen old time’s sake I’ll have to play it very cagy with her that bitch is

  perfectly capable of turning me in but maybe not after all nobody ever gave it

  to her in her life the way I did even if toward the end we were somewhat

  estranged nevertheless that’s part of the normal risks of marriage especially

  when you marry an officially accredited genius a member of the international

  elite of artistic achievement high intensity sometimes boils over I’m almost at

  Gargantua’s now I think unless he’s moved the gallery four years shit the whole

  shitting universe changes in four years every cell in the body turns over

  doesn’t it or is it seven years anyway we aren’t the same and Gargan probably

  sells his schlock out of Philadelphia now Chicago Karachi who knows but we’ll

  find out fast enough God it’s good just to walk the streets again breathe the

  air throw my shoulders back and tonight we’ll find some friendly hole for dicky

  dunking yes indeed four years without a piece that’s quite a long time for a man

  of my ability artistic and physical well maybe out in Darien I’ll find Noreen

  willing to come across or one of the others God that creepy Lissa I guess she’d

  do it she’d do it for anyone even Macy thinking she’s really fucking me of

  course but I don’t want her I don’t want to go within a million miles of her too

  dangerous what a shot in the head she gave me that time I don’t want her ever

  again ever ever I wonder what kind of work I’ll turn out as soon as I’m back in

  the swing of things it better be good if I can’t maintain quality might as well

  give the body back to Macy but I think I’ll pick up fast enough do some small

  pieces first recover my grasp of perspective my perspective of grasp and then

  we’ll see anyway the important thing is that I’m back

  —But you still have me, Hamlin.

  Macy. Oh, shit! Macy. I didn’t think I’d be hearing from you so soon.

  —Sorry to disappoint you.

  Why don’t you just erode away? Dissolve. Let yourself be absorbed by the cranial

  phagocytes,Hamlin suggested.You’re over and done with, anyway. Your nebulous

  existence has ceased to be, Macy. Admit it and go.

  —The Rehab Center failed to program me for autodestruct.

  I don’t need you, though.

  —But I do.

  What good are you? What imaginable value do you have to the world? To anyone?

  —I have immense value to me. I’m the only me I have. And I want to survive. I’m

  going to beat you, Hamlin. I’m going to throw you out again and this time I’ll

  abolish you. Just watch and see.

  Please. Your buzzing is giving me a headache and it’s such a beautiful day.

  —I’ll give you a lot more than a headache.

  Noisy threats were pointless. Macy wanted to make some dramatic demonstration of

  his ability to harass Hamlin. Give him as good as he got when the tables were

  turned. Clutch his heart, grab a bundle of muscles in his cheek, shut his eyes,

  make him piss in his pants. Jolt him, but without, naturally, doing real harm to

  the body they shared. Only he couldn’t. Macy’s harassment quotient was close to

  zero. All he could do was ride gain on Hamlin’s sensory input and pipe messages

  directly into his conscious brain. Buzzing. But no control of the motor sectors

  whatever. No grip on the autonomic system. Merely a passenger who hasn’t the

  foggiest where the throttle might be, or the brakes, or even the switch for the

  headlights. Meanwhile Hamlin, untroubled, turned a corner and entered the

  vestibule of a glossy-fronted shop on the smoked-glass window of which danced

  the words OMNIMUM GALLERIES, LTD. in free-floating globules of green capillary

  light. Inside, a battery of safety mechanisms bathed him in scanner-glow. An

  inner door finally rolled aside, and he entered the gallery, pausing not at all

  to inspect the treasures of contemporary art it displayed. He said to the girl

  at the desk, “Is Mr. Gargan here?”

  “Is he expecting you, sir?”

  “I don’t think so. But he’ll see me.”

  “Your name?”

  Hamlin faltered at that. Macy picked up the scathing tides of chagrin. A

  dilemma, yes. After a moment Hamlin said, “My name is Macy, Paul Macy.” With a

  meaningful glance at the Rehab badge in his lapel. “Tell him I used to be Nat

  Hamlin, though.”

  “Oh.” A little gasp. A flutter of confusion; a pretty spasm of embarrassment

  that turned the girl scarlet down to her fashionably exposed breasts. A quick

  recovery. Jeweled finger to the intercom. “Mr. Macy to see you, Mr. Gargan. Paul

  Macy. Formerly Mr. Nat Hamlin.”

  From some inner office, a bellow of surprise that needed no amplification.

  Hamlin was speedily ushered in. A spherical room, dense mossy black carpet

  installed 360°-wise everywhere, a man of implausible corpulence lolling along

  the curved left wall with a meaty hand held languidly over a control panel

  bristling with jeweled switches. Not rising when Hamlin entered. An ocean of

  blubber; flesh hanging in folds over folds of flesh. The features barely

  discernible within that mass: piggy little eyes, puggy little nose, narrow

  pinched puritan lips. Out of the vastness a thin man’s piping voice: “God’s own

  cock, what areyou doing here? You aren’t supposed to be coming here, Nat!”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Do I mind? Do I mind? You know I love you. Only I don’t follow this at all.

  They took you in for Rehab; I thought that was the end of you. When did you get

  out, anyway?”

  “Early in May. I would have seen you before this but there were problems.”

  “You look okay. You sound okay. Just like your old self. But you’ve got the

  badge. You’re somebody else now, right? What’s your new name?”

  “Macy. Paul Macy.”

  “Don’t like it. It’s a name without any balls.”

  “I didn’t pick it, Gargantua.”

  The fat man tugged at his dewlaps. “Am I supposed to call you Nat or Paul?”

  “You better call me Paul.”

  “Paul. Paul. Well, I’ll try. Sit down, Paul. Jesus, what a fruity name! Sit

  down, anyway.” Hamlin sat. Macy, a helpless spectator within him, sat also.

  Listening to every word of the conversation but unable to speak. As though

  watching it on a screen. He had seen this fat man, this gallery owner, before,

  drifting around in the debris of Hamlin’s memory; but he seemed much fatter now.

  This man and Hamlin had grown rich together on the proceeds of Hamlin’s genius.

  Now Hamlin stretched out voluptuously. In full command of his recaptured body.

  The black carpeting seemed to be a foot thick: bouncy, lush. Gargan touched one

  of the switches on the panel in front of him and the room silently revolved,

  changing its axis by some 15°. Hamlin’s side of the sphere went up and Gargan’s

  descended. Macy experienced some vertigo. The fat man lay pleasantly sprawled,

  kneading his belly. Shortly he belched and said, “How do you like the setup

  here? Or don’t you remember the old one?”

  “I remember. This is tremendous, Gargantua. Like a fucking Babylonian palace. A

  gallery for sybarites, eh?”

  “We get a good clientele here.”

  “You’re prospering. And you’ve gained some weight, haven’t you? Unless I’m

  mistaken, quite a lot of weight.”

  “Quite. Two or three hundred pounds since you last saw me.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “I think so.”

  “How the crap do you have the patience to eat so much, though?”

  “Oh, I don’t waste time overeating,” Gargan said. “I’ve had my lipostat

  surgically adjusted. My whole body-fat-and-glucose equation has been changed. I

  burn slowly, my friend, I burn very slowly. The eating it takes to give you an

  ounce gives me a pound. And I grow lovely, eh, more lovely every day. I want to

  weigh a thousand pounds, Nat! Paul. I must call you Paul.”

  “Paul, yes.”

  “But none of this makes any sense.” Gargan stirred ever so slightly, craning his

  neck. “How can you remember me? Why didn’t Rehab wipe you out?”

  “It did.”

  “But you sound just like—”

  “I’m a special case. Don’t ask too many questions.”

  “I follow you, Nat.”

  “Paul.”

  “Paul.”

  “Be more careful about my name, will you? I’m a brand new man. The loathsome

  countersocial rapist who did such grievous damage to so many innocent women has

  been humanely destroyed, Gargantua, and will never walk the earth again.”

  “I follow. Where are you living?”

  “Way uptown. A temporary place. You can have the address if you want.”

  “Please. And the phone.”

  “I won’t be there long. As soon as I’ve got some cash together I’ll find

  something a little more suitable.”

  “Are you working yet?”

  “As a holovision commentator,” Hamlin said. “Maybe you’ve seen me. The late

  news.”

  “I meanworking. ”

  “No. I have no equipment, no studio. I haven’t even had a chance to think about

  work in a serious way.”

  “But soon?”

  “Soon, yes.” Macy felt Hamlin’s lips curve into a sly, malicious smile. “Would

  you like to represent me when I get started again, Gargantua?”

  “Why ask? You know we have a contract.”

  “We don’t,” said Hamlin.

  “I could show it to you. Wait, let me punch the retrieve.” Gargan’s meaty

  fingers hovered over the console buttons. As he started to stab a stud Hamlin

  reached out and stopped him.

  “You had a contract with Nat Hamlin,” Hamlin said. “Hamlin’s dead. You can’t

  represent his ghost. My name is Paul Macy, and I’m looking for a dealer. You

  interested?”

  Gargan’s face looked puffier. “You know I am.”

  “Fifteen percent.”

  “The old contract said thirty.”

  “The old contract was signed twenty years ago. The situation then doesn’t apply

  now. Fifteen.”

  Lengthy tugging at dewlaps. “I never take less than thirty.”

  “You will if you want me to come back to you.” The voice very flat now. “All

  Hamlin’s contracts were legally dissolved when his personality underwent

  deconstruct. I’m not bound by anything. Also I’m without assets and I need to

  rebuild my capital in a hurry. Fifteen. Take it or leave it.”

  In Gargan’s eyes a countervailing slyness. “Nat Hamlin was an established master

  with a line of museum credits longer than my cock. Paul—what is it, Macy?—Paul

  Macy is a nobody. I had a waiting list for Hamlins, for anything he’d turn out.

  Why should people buy you?”

  “Because I’m as good as Hamlin.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “Because I tell you so. Business may be slow at first until the word-of-mouth

  starts, but when the public realizes that Macy is as good as Hamlin, even better

  than Hamlin because he’s been through an extra hell and knows how to make use of

  it, the public will come around and clean you out. You’ll cover your nut with

  plenty to spare. Do we have a deal at fifteen or don’t we?”

  “I want to see some of Paul Macy’s work,” Gargan said slowly, “before I offer a

  contract.”

  “Contract first or you don’t see a thing.”

  A tut and a tut from the narrow lips. “Artists aren’t supposed to be rapacious.

  That’s why they need dealers, to be sons of bitches on their behalf.”

  “I can be my own son of a bitch,” Hamlin said. “Look, Gargantua, don’t waltz