Dreambox Junkies 12 страница

You did your dethan shit, half a hair pill and the Vitamin C, and still you ripped into yourself as soon as you got back in the Real. It was the price you paid for having such a frucked-up shit-filled head, the selfsame shit that made you a Sensitive Artist, an authentic human person who faced up to yourself, so maybe this was right and cool and proper, that straight away you should start ripping into yourself, killing the bliss of coming back. Now and here, in Groundworld, Janko ripped into himself by reminding himself that it wasn't love for him they were feeling, all these kids, sixteen years on and still torn up and pining. It wasn't a him thing, it was a self thing, all their little separate selves they were feeling for. Ten million private Janko Brauches, no more real, no more him than the computer ghosts the moviemakers used.

You sad old gusset-sucker, Janko Brauch.

There was no going back, no undoing the crash in this real world. Those two people had died. He had run them down and killed them. End of story. It might have turned out differently, but it hadn't, so tough frucking titty. He could dream up any shit he desired, but the REAL TRUTH was written in stone. In his boxworld, Janko Brauch was a slaughtered lamb legend. Here in Groundworld, he was what he had always been these last sixteen years: a ruined soul, a taker of lives, a grey-haired once-was, turned forty-six, with blood on his hands. The blood of those two newlyweds, robbed by him of the rest of their lives.

What kind of lives? Janko had wondered, and he had thought that maybe seeing them happy would make him feel better about himself. To start with, he had left them well alone in his boxworld. But then all of a sudden this impulse—why not pay a visit, make sure that things were okay, fine and good? If things weren't, then that wouldn't be his fault, not in his boxworld, a world where he hadn't gone off the road and hit them sixteen years ago. But he hoped life was good for them. All he had to do was wish to see them, and his little magic box would do the rest.

And so, two boxtrips ago, the bliss belly had shat him out over a city. Southern Spain. Seville. He knew it, he'd played there. He'd floated down toward a house with a big glass sun dome. He'd floated down through the dome, down into the open garden court the house was built around.

And there she was, the woman, older now, but still a looker. She was standing alone, and just as he'd floated down toward her she'd raised her face and stared right up at him, right at him, as if she could see him there, even though he was invisible to her and to all of them, every one of his humiliants. And then she had collapsed, knocking over a plant in a pot, and had thrashed about on the floor and let out a weird, weird moan.

Like she'd seen him there, looking down on her.

Janko had checked to make sure he was invisible. He was; he could see nothing of himself.

Some Spanishy dude had come rushing in and picked the woman up and shot her with a hypo.

“Paul! ” the woman had called.

The name had put a knife through Janko Brauch's invisible guts.

The woman, Frances Rayle, had started crying, the young Spanish guy in the white shirt trying to soothe her.

And then, somebody else had appeared, and Janko had recognized Paul Rayle. Sixteen years on, he wasn't looking well, he wasn't looking too healthy.

But there they were, though, both still alive, the married couple he'd killed.

And married, still?

No.

All Janko had to do was ask a question and his boxworld supplied the answer in the form of an intuition. That was one of his wished-for supernatural powers—instant knowledge, along with weightlessness and utter invisibility. He'd ripped off the idea from DR SPEKKTRO, a comic he had read as a kid. The extra bit he'd added on by himself, a unique Janko Brauch invention, was the ability to drink in people's feelings for him. Like with that other chick who had been there in Seville, the chick with the Louise Brooks hair. Janko had detected quite a little lovesource there. But she was old. Thirty, if a day. Back when she was a teenager, maybe—

Seeing them both there in that house, his two once-victims, Paul and Frances Rayle, Janko had been troubled to find the woman having such a tough time of it, even though he knew that she was rolling-in-it rich. But more than that, something scared him about what was going down. In bewilderment, and with very deep unease, he had floated there and watched as Frances Rayle freed herself from the young guy and, unsteadily, stood up and looked straight up at him, Janko Brauch, once again, just like before, staring straight up at him and giving him the shits. You weren't meant to get the shits in your own boxworld. Not unless you hadn't dethanned. Had he boxed up without any dethan, gone in uncushioned? Was that why what was happening was happening?

“Paul... Paul it's not your world, it's not Processia's, nor mine, it's... "

And then she'd she'd pointed up at him, at the invisible Janko Brauch—just as if she could see him there.

“TELL THEM THE TRUTH! "

The words, screamed up at him by Frances Rayle, had caused Janko Brauch such severe shock that the traumafetch, a brand-new safety feature exclusive to Bengt & Anderssen, had yanked him out through the bliss belly as if by Caesarian, and dumped him home in Groundworld, for him to wake to the discovery that he'd used his pants as a toilet. From now on, Janko had vowed, he would keep well clear of Paul and Frances Rayle. He had put things straight, in his boxworld if not in real life, by undoing the crash that had killed them, by not even driving along that road that night sixteen years ago. He had settled the debt, and could hardly be held responsible for any other shit their little lives happened to drop them in subsequently. He would be leaving them to themselves, from this point onward. After all, they were only frucking humiliants, electronic pretend people, just like all those billions of other little ghosts in the private, secret boxworld of Janko Brauch. That was why it did your head in, doing Dreamboxes. You started thinking of your boxworld as real, when it wasn't real. You started thinking you'd put things right, healed the past, when you hadn't, man, not at all. That was why, when your brain mellowed out and you saw things straight and got your head round the real state of play, you started ripping into yourself. And the more of a Sensitive Artist you were, the more you beat yourself up, the higher the price you paid; it went with the territory.

Janko got up from the bed. He felt like ratshit. He had three immediate needs: a slash and a spliff and a shot of Jack Daniels. Too late, he realized he was still wearing the trodes. The Dreambox, yanked off the bed like a dog on a leash, smacked into the bedside table and thumped down and bounced on the thin-pile carpet.

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* * *

Chapter 24

It was as though a gaggle of electronic geese had been let loose in Frances's house. One of the birds could talk. It kept squawking: “INTRUDER ALERT! INTRUDER ALERT! "

Xabier instantly appeared, wielding a snubnosed buzzpistol. Felipe emerged from somewhere else, similarly armed. Sesha Roffey and Ruth were looking down over the balustrade, brought out from their rooms by the raucous alarm.

Frances just stood there as though in a trance. Xabier grabbed her and hustled her into an alcove, body-shielding her. Felipe did the same with Paulie as, onto the patio, strode a tall, muscular man in a bottle-green boilersuit and a Viking helmet. He was carrying not a firearm but a toolbox. Steadying his buzzgun with both hands, Felipe addressed the trespasser in Spanish, his voice taut and threatening. The Viking said a word, Paulie didn't catch it, and Felipe froze in his shooting stance like a waxwork exhibit. Xabier was likewise rendered inert.

The Viking said, “You are Paul and Frances Rayle, yes? ” His accent was so gelatinous as to court amusement.

What am I dreaming up now? Paulie wondered, trembling.

“Paul and Frances Rayle, ” the Viking spoke gravely, formally, “I regret to inform you that this Bengt & Anderssen BeaBox Ninety has suffered a physical shock of a magnitude sufficient to necessitate a complete reversion to initial worldcopy mode. All user amendments are forthwith rescinded. Sadly, this reconfigurative measure involves withdrawal of epicentral humiliant status from the aforementioned pseudopersons: namely, yourselves. "

Chilled to the bone, yet at the same time grimly gratified by this broad confirmation of his ontological suspicions, Paulie asked of their visitor, “Are you the Viking from the Bengt & Anderssen ads? "

“I am indeed that personage, yes. "

“Is this one of those new holo ads? ” Sesha Roffey, more than a trifle perplexed, was standing at the bottom of the steps. “They beat Sick Nick, ” she marvelled. “No one ever beats Sick Nick. You should have seen it. So you're a holo ad, right? "

“I am a boxworld janitory program manifesting itself anthropomorphically. ” The Viking put down his toolbox. “And you would be... Miss Processia Roffey? Miss Roffey, your own situation is somewhat more sanguine than that of Mr. and Ms Rayle, since the Ground-original self to which, directly, you shall be reverting is alive and well. These events may even be preserved in your memory at an oneiric level. "

“So some of us aren't alive and well in Groundworld? ” Paulie was aghast. “Whose boxworld is this? "

The Viking pondered. “I see no reason not to divulge the requested information, since the coming reversion will... ” He broke off, as if not to belabour harsh truths. “The user's name is Janko Brauch. "

“Janko Brauch? ” Sesha Roffey shook her head. “Janko Brauch died ages ago. That girl killed him onstage. Slit his throat with a bowie knife. Everyone knows that. What am I doing, arguing with a holo ad? And what's wrong with Xabier and the other guy? Am I sleepwalking or what? "

She's right, Paulie thought. It's common knowledge that Janko Brauch was murdered, elevated by a mad fan to the pantheon of showbusiness subchrists.

The Viking turned to Frances. His politeness, the care he took not to have her feel excluded from the conversation, was commendable. “Ms Rayle, there is no pleasant way of putting this, but, in Groundworld... "

“... I do not exist? ” Frances still showed no fear; in fact, she alone seemed to understand what was taking place.

“You do not exist, ” the Viking confirmed. “Or to be more precise, you are no longer animate. And neither are you, Mr Rayle, I'm afraid. "

Paulie almost collapsed. Dry-mouthed, he inquired, “Why is that? How can that be? "

“You were killed in a traffic accident by a driver who was, regretfully, in no fit state to be in command of a vehicle. That driver was Janko Brauch. The accident happened some sixteen years ago. "

“But Janko Brauch is dead, ” Sesha Roffey pointed out. “Janko Brauch died sixteen years ago. You're talking crap. He never killed anyone. I never heard of him killing anybody. "

“That much is true in this boxworld only, ” the Viking corrected. “As to Mr. Brauch's motives for resurrecting Mr. and Ms. Rayle and doing away with himself, I am sorry to say that I can furnish you with no further insight. The Bengt & Anderssen BeaBox Ninety creates for its user a psychoplastic Berkeley Effect worldcopy without in any way understanding, in a human sense, what it is doing. Any appearance of comprehension on my part is merely clever programming

. "

Paulie asked, “Why is it necessary, the reversion? Just run it by me again. "

“Physical trauma. The BeaBox Ninety received a shock of such intensity as to render the Berkeley Effect susceptible to exponential aberration. Henceforth, the user will progressively lose control of his boxworld. Reversion resets and restarts quantum compliance... the aforementioned Berkeley Effect. "

“Then why not just automatically revert? ” Paulie's own Dreambox boasted a similar safeguard; he now recalled skimming over that section in the instruction manual. “Don't you think it would have been kinder not to have notified us? "

“Undoubtedly. But I have my programming. "

“What are they, these programmers... a bunch of fucking sadists? "

“Quite possibly. Programmers are human, with human faults and foibles. Given the choice, I should not have discharged my duties in this somewhat cruel, theatrical manner. But that is academic, ” the Viking smiled mirthlessly, “since every facet of my apparent ‘character’ derives from a subroutine incorporated for the express purpose of further advertising the subtle artistry and zany eclat of my creators... although it could perhaps be that my hinted antipathy toward them reflects a measure of self-reproach on their part. But I digress. "

“When was this worldcopy made? ” Paulie asked.

“At four twenty-three p. m. on Tuesday February Seventh. "

Oh my God, Paulie thought. The other day. When I was asleep. Just as I suspected. “And the user... Janko Brauch... he dreamt himself back in time and changed history, saved us from himself? Why? Out of remorse? "

“Presumably. "

“So that's the only reason we're here, myself and Frances? Because of Janko Brauch? "

“That would seem to be the case, Mr. Rayle, ” said the Viking. “Although in boxworlds generated within this world, copied from it, yourself and Ms Rayle are, of course, extant subjects. "

“But those worlds will all be wiped out when this one reverts. "

“Indeed. ” The Viking's tone was suitably sombre. “Their realitude is contingent upon ours... or rather, yours, my own ontostatus being slightly more problematical. "

Ruth had come down the stairs. She was standing beside Sesha, holding Kali. The sight of them tore at Paulie's heart. Ruth was looking to him for some kind of explanation. She was scared and she wanted reassurance. What could he say? Ruth, being grounded, blessed with true existence in the real world, would survive the reversion, but her life would then recommence upon a course so different it would be tantamount to death for this GroundRuth. In the new, reverted boxworld there would be no Paulie Rayle for Ruth to meet—he would have died when she was a child—and, while she might well have given birth in Groundworld, there would be no Kali as such.

And Paulie and Frances Rayle? Ungrounded humiliants, conjured up out of corpses by the mind of Janko Brauch. Not the nicest discovery to make about oneself. Of course, there was always the possibility that Janko Brauch would do it all over again, dream them back to life, start the puppet-play a second time, or an umpteenth time. Maybe this whole farce had happened before?

Paulie felt nausea.

“It's a new type of ad, ” he explained to Ruth, talking fast to keep the despair out of his voice. “Holographic. He looks real but he isn't, he's just a projection. Nothing to worry about. "

Ruth was staring at Xabier, still frozen with his buzzgun, and only now did Paulie notice that both Xabier and Felipe had lost their facial features. They were bland, faceless dummies, like lifesize toys or cheap shop-window models. Paulie couldn't think how to explain away this development, so he just tried his best to convey to Ruth a sense that none of this was really too out of the ordinary, providing you were up on all the latest technotrends. He forced a smile. “Bit creepy, isn't it? ” Inside, he felt rage. At the Viking? At Janko Brauch? He wasn't sure. To the Viking, he said, “So you don't feel sorry for us? Not even for my daughter, three months old? "

“Please do not expect too much of a mere boxworld janitory program. "

Paulie could have punched this boxworld janitory program equipped with an answer for everything. But the Viking was exceptionally burly, and Paulie knew that even if he could pry loose the pistol from Xabier's fingers and pump that big barrel chest full of buzzslugs it would achieve nothing.

“Well, come on, then. ” Paulie raised his arms in a gesture of surrender. “Get it over with... at least have that much decency. "

Goodbye, Ruth, he thought. Frances. Tears clouded his eyes.

So, he mused bleakly, I finally get to learn the truth.

His heart hurt like it was being skewered.

Goodbye Kali.

“Mr. Rayle, could you describe to me exactly how it feels to be vouchsafed this awareness of your existential plight? ” Like some NeTV newsjockey with heavyweight pretensions, the Viking inclined his head and, keenly, awaited a response.

Paulie's mind was a blank. “Can you repeat the question? "

“Certainly. Could you describe to me, Mr. Rayle, exactly how it feels to be... "

“Who wants to know? ” Paulie demanded. “What's the purpose of this? "

“The United Nations Commission for the Study of the Ethical Dimension of Dreambox Use has legislated for the installation, in a small but representative proportion of Dreamboxes, of datagathering adjuncts. This encounter is being recorded. All information gleaned on the topic of humiliant subjective experience will be transmitted to UNCSEDDU for incorporation in its database. ” The Viking paused. “May I stress that Bengt & Anderssen have no choice but to comply with this UN directive, and thus are are in no way responsible for this unfortunately protracted boxworld reversion process; the standard B& A reversion routine is instantaneous and fully humiliant-friendly. Should it transpire that humiliant suffering is ruled to possess such realitude as to call for the granting of protective rights, then Bengt & Anderssen extend our deepest sympathies to all concerned. In the interim, we advise full and honest co-operation with the UN adjunct. It is, in part, on the basis of your answers to its questions that a ruling will be formulated. Mr. Rayle, would you like me to repeat the question again? "

“Will somebody just please tell me what the fucking hell's going on? ” Ruth's brittle voice made Kali cry.

Acidly, Paulie remarked to the Viking, “This is a bit of an unkind way of going about things, wouldn't you say? "

“The blame lies with the software house contracted to produce the adjunct. I understand that there were time constraints. Bengt & Anderssen cannot fairly be held to account for... "

“So how many questions are there in all? "

“Twenty-three. ” The Viking turned to Frances. “And you, Ms Rayle... could you also provide a set of replies? "

Frances was watching. That was all she had been doing, throughout, observing, as though sympathetic but not personally involved. It was beginning to annoy Paulie, quite unable to conceal all the proliferating symptoms of his terror, while Frances just looked on, laid-back, detached, without even so much as a bead of sweat breaking out on her brow.

“And when we've finished answering the questions, ” Paulie wanted to know, “what happens then? "

“Reversion, ” the Viking said simply.

Paulie thought, Back to the grave for Frances and me.

He said, “And the others? They'll be brought back into line with their true, Groundworld selves? "

The Viking nodded. “Correct, sir. "

Paulie felt like saying to Sesha Roffey, Well, didn't I tell you? I was right about this world of ours, wasn't I? The erotoroutine, everything. You wouldn't listen. You wouldn't believe me.

But it would do no good—she would go on believing that this was the real world and he was a stupid Dreambox junkie and the Viking was a weird holo ad. And perhaps, Paulie considered, that was a good thing. She would not be anticipating the reversion, and therefore, like Ruth, like Kali, she would not suffer. He wondered where Sesha Roffey would find herself in the new scheme of things. For there would be no Frances, no Institute of Psychotrichology, no job. Her life would be decidedly different, as was her true Groundworld life.

Unless and until Janko Brauch brought this world back into being...

“Look, Paulie, what's going on? ” Ruth was still scared, and doing her best to comfort Kali.

Frances collapsed.

“Frances! ” Sesha Roffey darted forward. “Help her someone! "

The Socratosine hypo protruded from a small holster on Xabier's belt. Paulie grabbed it but, before he could work out how to use it, Sesha had snatched it from him. She was about to shoot Frances in the arm when all at once, with the grace of an angel, Frances floated to her feet and said, “Thank you, Processia, but that won't be necessary. "

Like a very small girl, Ruth was gazing at Frances.

And then Paulie heard Ruth say, very quietly, “Mother....? "

[Back to Table of Contents]

* * *

Chapter 25

The Bengt & Anderssen Dreambox janitory program in the guise of a boilersuited Viking gave expression to a mild measure of impatience by simulating throat clearance. “If you could please return your attention to the UNCSEDDU verbal questionnaire, Mr. and Ms. Rayle? "

But the Viking was beginn

ing to dematerialize: one horn of his helmet had coarsened, degraded into pointillistic pixels, and also one leg, from knee to ankle, plus a corner of his galvanized toolbox—now two corners, now three. And Paulie noticed that the beautiful house around them, Frances's house, was no longer such a flawlessly-rendered pseudoenvironment; by the moment it was shedding its textures, eschewing aspect after aspect of its former authenticity, degenerating further and further into the crude approximation of a cartoon.

Frances held Ruth in her arms. Ruth was crying on her shoulder. Kali's baby face was slowly scrungeing up, making ready to burst into tears. Paulie caught the eye of Sesha Roffey. She gave him a beats-me-too shrug; her tiny gesture of human solidarity in the face of all this grotesquerie touched him deeply, and he felt bad for ever having judged her uncharitably.

“Now, Mr. Rayle, ” the Viking pressed on doggedly in his pantomime lilt, “could you describe to me exactly how it feels to be vouchsafed this awareness of your existential plight? "

Instead of answering the question, Paulie put one of his own, “Why are you disappearing? "

“I am ceasing to manifest? That would be because the BeaBox Ninety requires maximum battery power for the reversion procedure. I am afraid we are out of time. Further delay will compel a complete repetition of the basic worldcopying process, incurring unacceptable inconvenience for the user. Bengt & Andersson have a reputation for reliability second to none, and are legally permitted to abandon UNCSEDDU questioning if and when it interferes with the reasonable maintenance of a positive percept-profile in today's overcrowded market. ” The last three words came out reedy and hollow, like from a trashy toy; the Viking was barely more than a vestige now. “Bengt & Anderssen wish me to convey to you their sincerest apolllllllllllllllllll... ” The word trailed off ludicrously as the remaining aggregate of pixels dissipated into a fine fog before departing the scene entirely.

Turning to Frances, Paulie asked, “How can you be Ruth's mother? This is ridiculous. "

Inside his head, he heard her say, “Don't be afraid, Paulie. "

“Well what you're doing now doesn't help, ” he told her. “I'd rather you spoke to me in the normal way, by vocalizing, if that's not too much trouble? "

Smiling sympathetically, Frances said, “I'm sorry. ” She was stroking Ruth's hair. Ruth was still sobbing and snuffling, but Kali's little face had unscrunged. Her eyes were wide and alert.

Again, Paulie demanded of his ex-wife, “How can you be Ruth's mother? "

“I am many things. I have many names. "

“Have you the power to prevent this world from reverting? ” He too could have done with a hug from Frances, a nice fierce motherly protective hug. “I'm sure you can appreciate my confusion? And imagine how Sesha here must be feeling. "

“I still don't understand about Janko Brauch, ” Sesha Roffey put in. She was maintaining an incredible degree of composure; indeed, she displayed all of the coolness one might expect from Frances's nominated successor as head of PsyTri. “In fact I can't see how any of this can really be happening. I mean, the house... neat effect, but I just don't get it. And where's Xabier's face? "

“Xabier, ” Frances said quietly. “Felipe. "

The facial features of both men promptly grew back, causing them to blink and start violently. A glance from Frances and they relaxed. A little dazedly, they put away their buzzpistols. Felipe murmured something in Spanish, and Xabier admitted, “I cannot comprehend the current situation. "

Frances spoke briefly, softly to the two men in their own language, and they immediately fell silent, as though their duties included curtailment of curiosity wherever appropriate.

To Frances, Paulie said, “Is this really Janko Brauch's boxworld? Or am I the dreamer? ” Like Sesha Roffey, he couldn't figure out the Janko Brauch connection. The late singer-songwriter had been to Paulie barely more than a name. Why, Paulie asked himself, should I choose, at whatever mental level, to grant Janko Brauch this key role in my boxlife? Why should I have conjured up this scenario in which he kills and resurrects me? If Janko Brauch's boxworld is merely a subsidiary of my own, if I am dreaming him dreaming me, what on earth could I be playing at? “Can you take us back to Groundworld? ” he asked the being that Frances had become. “Is it over now? Are we saved? Is this the wonderful happy ending my mind has dreamt up for us all? "

“Concerned about your stool consistency? "

The words were uttered by Xabier, in slick, smooth ad agency English, as though he had chosen this of all moments to demonstrate a hitherto hidden talent for mimicry. “Colour? Texture? ” He grimaced sympathetically. “Abnormalities in terms of... well, hey, let's not beat about the bush... in terms of odour? Problem, huh? And let me guess... you find diagnostic paper too rough... am I right? Well, why not install a CoproCare Plus Home Faecal Analyzer and flush away that toilet-bowl torment.... ” The ad spiel terminated abruptly as Xabier, assuming an expression of good-natured disdain and a whole new voice of greater depth and authority, shook his head dismissively. “That's all very well and good... and don't get me wrong, the CoproCare Plus is a darn cool piece of kit... but, ” he winced, “it's just a tad on the pricey side. The Plimpton Anal Output Inspector, on the other hand, offers comparable performance at a considerably more competit... compet... com... ” At last Xabier's true demeanour succeeded in reasserting itself. In rapid Spanish, he addressed Frances, cursing, gesticulating, indicating his Mindseye implant scar.

Paulie wasn't unduly surprised by this new-found ability on the part of pirate ads not merely to gatecrash and annoy, but to actively puppet a Mindseye wearer. And not just a single ad but a pair of rival, competing morphomercials. No let-up in the ad war, not even at the end of the world. Zombimercials, he thought. That's what they'll be calling them. Only not in this realitude, they won't. For this world is about to de-exist.

“Paulie! "

Ruth was looking at him over Frances's shoulder. Such an odd, unnerving look. Unnerving for its total lack of bewilderment; this was absolutely not Ruth as he knew her. This knowing, burdened, haunted, sad-eyed transRuth.

“What is it? ” Paulie asked her, suddenly very frightened.

Sesha Roffey was staring. And so were Xabier and Felipe. Even little Kali was staring at him. Because, Paulie Rayle discovered to his horror, something was befalling him. As with the big Bengt & Anderssen Viking, he was leaving the scene, albeit in an even weirder way. He wasn't fading, losing resolution—instead, the entire front half of his body had been shaved from sight. Like Humberto Sfat's entropic tomcat, he was hollow, an empty shell: Paulie Rayle on the outside; on the inside, smooth neutral grey. A jelly mould in the shape of Paulie Rayle. Additionally—and this was the truly bizarre aspect—when he felt for his face, it wasn't there, yet he could still see his hollow hand reaching into his hollow skull. He was still able to see and hear and think. How could that be?

“Make him real, ” said Ruth to Frances. “You're the Goddess... make him real! "

Frances hesitated, seemingly at a loss.

Strange, Paulie mused. How peculiar for an angel, indeed, a veritable Goddess, to be stumped, unable to assist.

He found that musing now required considerable effort. Not that his current straits were causing him any physical pain. Psychologically, though, the experience was deeply unpleasant.

“MAKE HIM REAL! "

Ruth's screamed plea startled little Kali, set their tiny daughter shrieking with fear.

Stepping forward, Frances turned and fitted herself into the hollow half-shell that represented Paulie Rayle.

* * * *

Ruth Deitch awoke.

Her body tingled from the caressing cocoon of the bliss belly. Bathed in sweat, heart galloping, she lay there, the tiny Fetch light on her Dreambox barely discernible in the welcome winter sunshine streaming in through the cottage window.

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