*

When you don't have any scotch in the house you'd be surprised how
well rum will do--even Jamaica rum. I was on my own davenport in my
own apartment and there were two shot glasses in front of me. I was
taking turns on them so they wouldn't wear out. And what was keeping
these glasses busy was me and a fifth of the Jamaica rum in my right
hand. And that's when it all began.

Across the room a rather stout woman was needling a classic through
the television screen and at the same time needing a shave rather
badly. I wasn't paying any attention to her. I was thinking about the
Doll. Wondering, worrying a little. And that's when it began.

That's when the voice said, "Mr. Anders, would you do me the goodness
to forget that bottle for a moment?"

The voice seemed to be coming from the TV screen although the stout
lady hadn't finished her song. The voice was like the disappointed
sigh of a poor old bloke down to his last beer dime and having to look
up into the bartender's grinning puss as the bartender downs a nice
bubbly glass of champagne somebody bought for him. Poor guy, I
thought. I downed glass number one. And then glass number two. And
then I looked over at the TV screen.

That sent a little shiver up my spine. I dropped my eyes to the
glasses, filled them once more. Strong stuff, Jamaica rum. At the
first the taste is medicine. A little later the taste is pleasant
syrup. And a little later still the taste is delightful. But
strong--the whole way strong. I downed glass number one.

I figured I wouldn't touch glass number two yet. I brought up my eyes,
let them go over to the TV screen again.

He didn't have any eyes. That was the first thing that struck me.
There were other things of course, such as the fact he didn't have any
arms or legs. He didn't have any head either, in case he had eyes in
the first place. He was a black swirling bioplastic mass of something
or other and he was doing a graceful tango directly in front of the TV
screen, thereby blocking off from view the stout woman who needed a
shave.

He said, "Do you have any idea what I am, Mr. Anders?"

"Sure," I said. "Somebody's blennorrheal nightmare."

"Incorrect, Mr. Anders. This substance is not mucous. Mucous is very
seldom black."

"Mucous is very seldom black," I mimicked.

"Correct, Mr. Anders."

So all right. So they were making Jamaica rum a little stronger these
days. So _all right_! Next time I wouldn't get rum, I'd get