The man with the bandage experienced another tie in his cheek. His eyes grew wide -- he too recognized me.

"Art Patrons?" said the ruddy one. "Yes, there is such a barbarous organization with us here. It is very sad that such is the case, but it's so."

I nodded, studying the bandage. My acquaintance had already regained his composure and was eating his jelly with his accustomed haughty look.

"In essence they are simply modern-age vandals. I simply couldn't find a more appropriate word. They pool their resources and buy up stolen paintings, statues, ma.n.u.scripts, unpublished literary works, patents, and destroy them. Can you imagine how revolting that is? They And some pathological delight in the destruction of examples of world culture. They gather in a large, well-dressed crowd and slowly, deliberately, orgiastically destroy them!"

"Oh my, my, my!" I said, not taking my eyes off the bandage. "Such people should be hung by their legs."

"And we are after them," said the ruddy one. "We are in pursuit of them on the legal level. We are unfortunately unable to get after the Artiques and the Perchers, who are not breaking any laws, but as far as the Art Patrons are concerned --".

"Are you finished yet, Senator?" inquired the bandaged one, ignoring me.

The ruddy one caught himself.

"Yes, yes. It's time for us to go. You will excuse us, please," he said, turning to me. "We have a meeting of the munic.i.p.al council."

"Bartender!" called the bandaged one in a metallic voice.

"Would you call us a taxi."

"Have you been here long?" asked the ruddy man.

"Second day," I replied.

"Do you like it?"

"A beautiful city."

"Mm -- yes," he mumbled.

We were silent. The man with the bandage impudently inserted his monocle and pulled out a cigar.

"Does it hurt?" I asked sympathetically.

"What, exactly?"

"The jaw," I said. "And the liver should hurt, too."

"Nothing ever hurts me," he replied, monocle glinting. "Are you two acquainted?" the ruddy one asked in astonishment.

"Slightly," I said. "We had an argument about art."

The bartender called out that the taxi had arrived. The man with the bandage immediately got up.

"Let's go, Senator," he said.

The ruddy one smiled at me abstractedly and also got up.

They set off for the exit. I followed them with my eyes and went to the bar.

"Brandy?" asked the bartender.

"Quite," I said. I shuddered with rage. "Who are those people I just spoke to?"

'The baldy is a munic.i.p.al counselor, his field are cultural affairs. The one with the monocle is the city comptroller."

"Comptroller," I said. "A scoundrel is what he is."

"Really?" said the barman with interest.

'That's right, really," I said. "Is Buba here?"

"Not yet. And how about the comptroller, what is he up to?"

"A scoundrel, an embezzler, that's what he is," I said.

The bartender thought awhile.

"It could well be," he said. "In fact he's a baron -- that is, he used to be, of course. His ways, sure enough, are unsavory. Too bad I didn't go vote or I would have voted against him. What's he done to you?"

"It's you he's done. And I've given him some back. And I'll give him some more in due time. Such is the situation."

The bartender, not understanding anything, nodded and said, "Hit it again?"

"Do," I said.

He poured me more brandy and said, "And here is Buba, coming in."

I turned around and barely managed to keep the gla.s.s in my grip. I recognized Buba.

Chapter TEN.

He stood by the door looking about him as though trying to remember where he had come and what he was to do there. His appearance was very unlike his old one, but I recognized him at once anyway, because for four years we sat next to each other in the lecture halls of the school, and then there were several years when we met almost daily.

"Say," I addressed the bartender. "They call him Buba?"

"Uhuh," said the bartender.

"What is it -- a nickname?"

"How should I know? Buba is Buba, that's what they all call him."

"Peck," I cried.

Everyone looked at me. He too slowly turned his head and his eyes searched for the caller. But he paid no attention to me. As though remembering something, he suddenly started to shake the water out of his cape with convulsive motions, and then, dragging his heels, hobbled over to the bar and climbed with difficulty on the stool next to mine.

"The usual," he said to the bartender. His voice was dull and strangled, as though someone held him by the throat.

"Someone has been waiting for you," said the barman, placing before him a gla.s.s of neat alcohol and a deep dish filled with granulated sugar.

Slowly he turned his head and looked at me, saying, "Well, what is it you want?"

His drooping eyelids were inflamed red, with acc.u.mulated slime in the corners. He breathed through his mouth as though suffering with adenoids.

"Peck Xenai," I said quietly. "Undergraduate Peck Xenai, please return from earth to heaven."

He continued to regard me without a change in his manner.

Then he licked his lips and said, "A cla.s.smate, perhaps?"

I felt numb and terrified. He turned around, picked up his gla.s.s, drank it down, gagging in revulsion, and began to eat the sugar with a large soup spoon. The bartender poured him another gla.s.s.

"Peck," I said, "old friend, don't you remember me?"

He looked me over again.

"I wouldn't say that. I probably did see you somewhere."

"Saw me somewhere!" I said in desperation. "I am Ivan Zhilin. Could it be you have completely forgotten me?"

His hand holding the gla.s.s quivered almost imperceptibly, and that was all.

"No, friend," he said, "forgive me, please, but I don't remember you."

"And you don't remember the 'Tahmasib' or Iowa Smith?"

"This heartburn has really got to me today," he informed the bartender. "Let me have some soda, Con."

The bartender, who had listened with curiosity, poured him a soda.

"Bad day, today, Con," he said. "Can you imagine, two automates failed on me today."

The bartender shook his head and sighed.

"The manager is b.i.t.c.hing," continued Buba, "called me on the carpet and bawled me out. I am going to quit that place. I told him to go to h.e.l.l and he fired me."

"Complain to the union," the bartender advised.

"To h.e.l.l with them." He drank his soda and wiped his mouth with the palm of his hand. He did not look at me.

I sat as though spat upon, forgetting completely what it was I wanted Buba for. I needed Buba, not Peck -- that is, I needed Peck too. But not this one. This was not Peck, this was some strange and repulsive Buba, and I watched in horror as he sucked up the second gla.s.s of alcohol and again set to shoveling spoonfuls of sugar into himself. His face effloresced with red spots, and he kept gagging and listening to the bartender as he animatedly recounted the latest football exploits. I wanted to cry out, "Peck, what has happened to you?

Peck, you used to hate all this!" I put my hand on his shoulder and said imploringly, "Peck, dear friend, hear me out, please."

He shied away.

"What's the matter, friend?" His eyes were now completely unseeing. "I am not Peck, I am Buba, do you understand? You are confusing me with someone else, there isn't any Peck here....

So what did the Rhinos do then, Con?"

I reminded myself where I was, and forced myself to understand that there was no more Peck, and that there was a Buba, here, an agent of a criminal organization, and this was the only reality, while Peck Xenai was a mirage -- a memory which must be quickly extirpated if I intended to press on with my work.

"Hold on, Buba," I said. "I want to talk business to you."

He was quite drunk by now.

"I don't talk business at the bar," he announced. "And anyway I am through with work. Done. I have no more business of any kind. You can apply to the city hall, friend. They'll help you out."

"I am applying to you, not the city hall," I said. "Will you listen to me!"

"You I hear all the time, as it is. To the detriment of my health."

"My business is quite simple," I said. "I need a slug."

He shuddered violently.

"Are you out of your mind, pal?"

"You should be ashamed," said the bartender. "Right out in front of people... you have lost all sense of decency."

"Shut up," I told him.

"You be quiet," the barman said menacingly. "It must be some time since you've been busted? Watch your step or you'll get exported."

"I don't give a d.a.m.n about the exportation," I said insolently. "Don't stick your snoot in other people's business."

"Lousy sluggard," said the bartender.

He was visibly incensed, but spoke in a low voice. "A slug he wants. I'll call an officer right now and he'll give you a slug."

Buba slid off the stool and hurriedly hobbled toward the door.

I left off with the bartender and hurried after him. He shot out into the rain, and forgetting to cover himself with his cape, started to look around in search of a taxi. I caught up with him and grasped him by the sleeve.

"What in G.o.d's name do you want from me?" he said miserably. "I'll call the police."

"Peck," I said. "Come out of it, Peck. I am Ivan Zhilin, and you must remember me."

He kept looking around and wiping the streaming water from his face with the palm of his hand. He looked pitiful and run down, and I, trying to suppress my irritation, kept insisting to myself that this was my Peck, priceless Peck, irreplaceable Peck, good, intelligent, joyful Peck, kept trying to remember him as he was in front of the Gladiator's control console, and I couldn't because I couldn't imagine him anywhere except at the bar over a gla.s.s of alcohol.

"Taxi," he screeched, but the car flew by, full of people.