Sirens of Titan - Kurt Vonnegut [14]
Malachi Constant broke into a cold sweat. His knees threatened to buckle and his eyelids came unhinged. He was finally understanding that every bit of it had been real! He had been calm in the midst of the mob because he knew he wasn’t going to die on Earth.
Something was looking out for him, all right.
And whatever it was, it was saving his skin for—
Constant quaked as he counted on his fingers the points of interest on the itinerary Rumfoord had promised him.
Mars.
Then Mercury.
Then Earth again.
Then Titan.
Since the itinerary ended on Titan, presumably that was where Malachi Constant was going to die. He was going to die there!
What had Rumfoord been so cheerful about?
Constant shuffled over to the helicopter, rocked the great, ramshackle bird as he climbed inside.
"You Rowley?" said the pilot.
"That’s right," said Constant.
"Unusual first name you got, Mr. Rowley," said the pilot.
"Beg your pardon?" said Constant nauseously. He was looking through the plastic dome of the cockpit cover—looking up into the evening sky. He was wondering if there could possibly be eyes up there, eyes that could see everything he did. And if there were eyes up there, and they wanted him to do certain things, go certain places—how could they make him?
Oh God—but it looked thin and cold up there!
"I said you’ve got an unusual first name," said the pilot.
"What name’s that?" said Constant, who had forgotten the foolish first name he had chosen for his disguise.
"Jonah," said the pilot.
Fifty-nine days later, Winston Niles Rumfoord and his loyal dog Kazak materialized again. A lot had happened since their last visit.
For one thing, Malachi Constant had sold out all his holdings in Galactic Spacecraft, the corporation that had the custody of the great rocket ship called The Whale. He had done this to destroy every connection between himself and the only known means of getting to Mars. He had put the proceeds of the sale into MoonMist Tobacco.
For another thing, Beatrice Rumfoord had liquidated her diversified portfolio of securities, and had put the proceeds into shares of Galactic Spacecraft, intending thereby to get a leather-lunged voice in whatever was done with The Whale.
For another thing, Malachi Constant had taken to writing Beatrice Rumfoord offensive letters, in order to keep her away—in order to make himself absolutely and permanently intolerable to her. To see one of these letters was to see them all. The most recent one went like this, written on stationery of Magnum Opus, Inc., the corporation whose sole purpose was to manage the financial affairs of Malachi Constant.
Hello from sunny California, Space Baby! Gee, I am sure looking forward to jazzing a high-class dame like you under the twin moons of Mars. You’re the only kind of dame I never had, and I’ll bet your kind is the greatest. Love and kisses for a starter. Mal.
For another thing, Beatrice had bought a capsule of cyanide—more deadly, surely, than Cleopatra’s asp. It was Beatrice’s intention to swallow it if ever she had to share so much as the same time zone with Malachi Constant.
For another thing, the stock market had crashed, wiping out Beatrice Rumfoord, among others. She had bought Galactic Spacecraft shares at prices ranging from 151½ to 169. The stock had fallen to 6 in ten trading sessions, and now lay there, trembling fractional points. Since Beatrice had bought on margin as well as for cash, she had lost everything, including her Newport home. She had nothing left but her clothes, her good name, and her finishing school education.
For another thing, Malachi Constant had thrown a party two days after returning to Hollywood—and only now, fifty-six days later, was it petering out.