Stalking the Unicorn: A Fable of Tonight (23 page)

"If you won't go in there, how do you know that the cat-girl is there?” asked Mephisto.

"I saw her,” replied the watchman. “She must have climbed up an outside wall and come in through an open window. Anyway, I saw her climb down the main stairway and sneak onto the floor on my security monitor."

"And she's still in there?” asked Mallory.

"She hasn't come out. Of course, I won't vouch for the fact that she's still alive."

Mallory walked to the door and opened it, while the watchman edged away. “Come on,” he said to Mephisto.

"I'm considering possible courses of action,” replied the magician hesitantly.

Mallory looked around the trading floor. “There's nothing here."

"Hah!” said the watchman.

"You're sure?” asked Mephisto.

Mallory made no reply, but began walking into the gargantuan room, which was dominated by the overhead ticker-tape screen. Stacked against the sterile walls were literally hundreds of computer terminals and screens and telephones, with still more efficient data and communications stations scattered across the shining, polished floor. He walked down the artificial aisle formed by the technical marvels, and after a moment's hesitation Mephisto followed him.

Suddenly the door slammed shut behind them.

"Felina!” called Mallory.

"Here,” said an unhappy voice, and Mallory looked up to see the cat-girl perched atop a huge computer complex.

"What are you doing here?” asked the detective.

"I told you—something was dying."

"And you ate it,” concluded Mallory.

"It cheated!” she said, morally outraged.

"Cheated? How?"

She shrugged. “It vanished."

"It dissipated,” said a hollow, mournful voice.

"Who's that?” demanded Mallory, spinning around.

"You've nothing to fear,” said the voice. “I mean you no harm."

"Where are you?"

A transparent lavender form started to coalesce in the air about fifty feet away, just above a mainframe computer. It disappeared, then took shape again in the middle of an empty aisle, an elongated figure with two dark, empty, staring eyes and a mouth of indeterminate proportions. Its outline was vague and seemed to wither away into nothingness toward the bottom.

"I apologize if my appearance startles or frightens you,” said the apparition. “I used to be able to do much better."

"Who are you?” asked Mallory.

"I am a Genie of the Market.” It paused. “In fact, I am the very last Genie of the Market."

"Was that you doing all that moaning and wailing?"

The Genie's outline wavered, and some of the color seemed to leave it. “That was my final companion, pouring out his grief and misery before he died,” it said mournfully.

"He vanished!” pouted Felina.

"I don't know exactly what a Genie is supposed to look like,” said Mallory, “but you don't appear so healthy yourself."

"I am dying,” sighed the Genie, turning a pale gray.

"Why?"

"Lack of sustenance. I am starving to death in a world of plenty."

"What do Genies of the Market eat?” asked Mallory.

"Excitement. Suspense. Fear. Triumph.” The Genie began vanishing, and pulled itself together with an obvious effort of will. “Ah, you can't know what it was like to live here in the old days! To see billions made and lost in an hour, to live through Black Tuesday, to watch the robber barons make their raids and then claim their just and terrible vengeance!"

"But billions are still made and lost every day,” noted Mephisto.

"It's not the same,” said the Genie. “Look around you,” it continued, forming an arm and pointing to the endless rows of screens and terminals. “Where are the men, where is the activity? Once this place ran through paper by the carload; now can you see so much as a single wastebasket? Everything is done by computers. Orders are taken, trades are made, financial empires rise and fall—but there's no emotion to accompany it, no excitement. Where is the urge to build a personal fortune, the drive to destroy your opponent and trample him into the dust of Wall Street, the thrill of triumph and the despair of defeat? All is gone, dissipated on the wind, just like my companions."

"Surely there is still
some
emotion left,” said Mallory. “Hundreds of people work the computers.
They
must feel elation and depression."

"It's not the same thing,” said the Genie with a sigh that echoed through the cold, empty room. “They have no personal stake in what goes on here; most of the money belongs to pension funds and other institutions. Besides, the machines make the decisions; the men and women are just glorified clerks, carrying out their mechanical masters’ orders. Such feeble emotions as they feel constitute nothing more than a starvation diet to us. John D. knew that; that's why he chose to die."

"John D.?"

"My fallen companion,” said the Genie. “I am J. P."

"For J. P. Morgan?” asked Mallory.

"Yes,” said J. P. “Now
there
was a tyrant, a man of enormous hates and enormous loves!” The Genie began glowing a bright purple as he spoke of his long-dead namesake. “The week the market crashed, he spent two hundred million dollars of his own money trying to prop it up single-handedly. He must have given sustenance to fifty Genies all by himself!” The Genie, glowing ever brighter, was lost in a reverie of recollection. “And when he used to come in here after battling with Teddy Roosevelt, the air absolutely crackled with energy. You know, we used to have fistfights breaking out on the floor almost every day."

"Times change,” said Mallory.

"I know,” sighed J. P., his color fading. “And, like the dinosaur before us, we stagger off to extinction, not with a bang but a whimper. I don't even think I'll mind. It's very lonely to be the last of your kind. A day, a week, a month, and I'll be joining my lost companions."

"I'm sorry,” said Mallory.

"Don't be,” said J. P., a dull gray once again. “It happens to all species—including Man.” His outline seemed to become even less substantial. “John D., Cyrus, August—I'll see you soon, my friends!"

And then he was gone.

"Sad,” commented Mallory.

"He cheated,” sniffed Felina.

"He probably felt that
he
had been cheated,” commented Mallory pensively, “even if he never figured out exactly how or why."

"We'd better go,” urged Mephisto. “Winnifred ought to be out front by now."

Mallory nodded. “Come on, Felina."

The cat-girl jumped lightly to the floor and raced to the door ahead of the two men.

"Now get her out of here,” said the watchman as the three of them left the trading floor.

"We're leaving right now,” said Mallory. “And I don't think you'll be bothered much longer by your ghosts."

"Good riddance!” said the man. “The nerve of those damned ghosts—scaring decent men who are just out to make an honest living!"

Mallory made no comment, and a moment later he, Felina, and Mephisto were standing on the sidewalk in front of the Stock Exchange. It had started to slush, a kind of half-rain and half-snow that had the worst features of each.

"What time is it?” asked Mephisto, holding a hand to his forehead in a vain attempt to keep his glasses dry.

Mallory checked his watch. “Two-thirty, give or take a minute."

Mephisto frowned. “Damn! Something's happened to Winnifred!"

"She's not that late,” replied Mallory soothingly.

"I've known her for the better part of fifteen years,” said the magician, “and she's never once been late for an appointment."

"Why don't you take a look around the corner?” suggested Mallory. “There's an entrance there too. Maybe she's waiting in the wrong place."

Mephisto nodded and walked carefully down the sidewalk, which was decidedly slippery, then turned right at the corner. He returned a few minutes later, holding up his cape so that it wouldn't trail in the slush, then wrapping it around himself again when he reached Mallory.

"No luck,” he announced grimly. Suddenly he looked around. “Where's Felina? If she's back in the Exchange again, I say we should just leave her there."

"I sent her back to the Morbidium to wait for Winnifred and Eohippus, just in case they show up there for some reason,” answered Mallory.

"Good idea,” said the magician. “I never did like cats, anyway."

"Well, that leaves you and me,” said Mallory.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that our next logical step is to find out what happened to Winnifred and Eohippus."

"It's obvious what happened to them,” replied Mephisto. “They ran into trouble."

"Then we'd better get them out of it."

"Look,” said Mephisto defensively, “I just agreed to do a little fact-finding. I have no intention of going up against the Grundy."

"I thought Winnifred was your friend."

"She is—but I wouldn't take on the Grundy if my own mother's life was at stake!"

"You don't have to,” said Mallory. “He may not even know they're on our side."

"
Your
side. Not
our
side."

"I stand corrected,” said the detective. “Still, nobody's asking you to fight the Grundy."

"That's
exactly
what you're asking me to do!” said Mephisto, his voice high and whining.

Mallory shook his head. “You're a magician. I'm just asking you to use your powers to find out what's happened to Winnifred and Eohippus.” He paused. “You don't even have to leave your home. Just use your crystal ball."

"And if the Grundy has them, he'll know I'm looking for them!” said Mephisto accusingly.

"You'll just be a concerned friend of Winnifred's, not an enemy of the Grundy's,” said Mallory persuasively.

"He'll know!” whined Mephisto. “He'll take one look at me and he'll know!"

"Do you have anything else you can use besides a crystal ball?"

Mephisto's brow furrowed in thought. “Well,” he said reluctantly, “I've got a magic mirror."

"What does it do?"

"Not much,” he said petulantly. “It doesn't like me."

"Could it locate Winnifred and Eohippus?"

"Maybe. It communicates with other mirrors."

"Then can you use the mirror instead of the crystal ball?"

"I don't know..."

"You won't have to do anything else,” Mallory assured him. “If you can tell me where she is, I'll take it from there."

"You mean that?” asked Mephisto, surprised.

Mallory nodded.

"I call that uncommonly civil of you!” said the magician.

"Thanks. Now, tell me where you live."

"Why?” asked Mephisto suspiciously.

"How else am I going to meet you and find out what you've learned?” asked Mallory irritably, stepping back from the edge of the sidewalk as an enormous yellow elephant turned the corner and began sloshing up the street with its load of partying passengers.

"Well?” persisted Mallory when the elephant had passed by.

"7 Mystic Place.” Mephisto looked embarrassed. “Go down a flight. It's the basement apartment.” He paused. “I don't see any reason to pay twice as much money for the privilege of wearing myself out climbing endless flights of stairs."

"7 Mystic Place,” repeated Mallory. He put his hands on his hips and looked around. “Now, while you're doing that, I suppose I'd better check with the police and the hospitals.” He paused. “I might as well start with the cops. If they haven't turned up yet, I can at least report them as missing. Where's the nearest station?"

"It's about half a mile away,” said Mephisto. “But they'll just send you to the Missing Persons Bureau. You could save a step by going right there."

"How do I find it?"

"It's two blocks from here,” said the magician. “Just turn left at the next corner and then go straight, and you can't miss it."

"Thanks. I'd better be going. I'll check in with you later."

"You know,” said Mephisto, “maybe I'll come back with you."

"To the Missing Persons Bureau?” asked Mallory, puzzled.

"To your world,” answered the magician.

Mallory stared at him curiously. “You?"

"Vegas is always looking for good magic acts. I might even get on the same bill as Wayne Newton!"

"Let's find out what happened to Winnifred first."

"Of course, of course,” said Mephisto, unable to contain his enthusiasm. “But then, look out, Vegas—here I come! Move over, Barbra Streisand! Make way, Rat Pack!"

"The Rat Pack doesn't exist anymore,” said Mallory. “They're all old men."

"Then a new Rat Pack will come along. One always does, you know."

"Yeah. Well, until that happy moment occurs, we've got work to do."

"And a time limit to do it in,” Mephisto reminded him. “If you're right about Larkspur, the membrane is already starting to harden."

"Then we haven't any time to waste, have we?” said Mallory, walking off across the slush-covered street.

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2:38 AM-3:10 AM

The Bureau of Missing Persons was a huge building, taking up an entire block. Like most of the other buildings in the vicinity, it was covered with soot and grime, and its windows were badly in need of a washing. Mallory, who had been expecting to find a single room stuck in the midst of a typical bureaucratic jungle, was surprised not only at its size but at the steady flow of people entering and leaving it.

The detective entered the building through the front door and found himself in a reasonably large lobby. Portraits of Jimmy Hoffa, Amelia Earhart, Judge Joseph Crater, and other famous missing persons were prominently displayed on the walls.

Mallory looked around, saw a desk marked INFORMATION, and approached it.

"May I help you, sir?” asked a uniformed man who was standing behind the counter.

"I hope so,” replied Mallory. “A friend of mine was late for an appointment; I have reason to believe that she may be in some trouble."

"I see,” said the man sympathetically.

"I want to find out if you have any information about her, and if not, I want to report her as being missing."

"Well, that's what we're here for, sir,” said the man. “In fact, it's our busiest night of the year.” He pulled out a pencil and a small notebook. “Let me just ask you a couple of questions, and I'll send you to the proper department."